


Stray

by Morgan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Raised Apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 160,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean’s always been the type to pick up strays, even though he knows he can’t keep them. Most strays you just patch up and feed before you send them on their way.” One day he runs into a stray he might actually want to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kid

There’s something picking off the homeless at a mostly abandoned skate park. Dean set up shop a couple of nights ago. 

Dad’s been sending him these kinds of gigs for a while, things where he can blend in well enough without having to try to pull a 21 Jump Street. The hunts themselves aren’t easy by any means, but it’s a little better when he doesn’t have to field uncomfortable questions about his age on top of everything else. 

Kid’s sixteen if he is a day. Dark hoodie, worn jeans and, as far as Dean can tell, cut lip and black eye and he’s keeping one arm pressed to his stomach. His dark hair is long enough to hang lankly covering his face and he’s hissing his breaths without making more noise than he absolutely has to. Dean’s not sure what he was expecting when he goes to help the kid, but it sure as hell isn’t for him to come up swinging. Dean drops back out of range of some seriously well-aimed and ill-intentioned kicks and holds his hands up, palms out. 

-Hey, hey, take it easy. Not gonna hurt you, he says and tries to look like he didn’t just put tree rounds in the thing lying dead a couple of feet away from them.   
-Heard that before, the kid spits viciously and doesn’t ease up even a little bit.   
-Look, kid, I here to help, okay? Dean says, but he isn’t stupid enough to move in range of someone who looks that much like a trapped animal. 

Sharp eyes focus on him and Dean can see the cold appraisal in them despite the fact that the kid must be sporting at least some bruised ribs as well as sundry assorted contusions. 

-You need the hospital? he asks when there’s nothing more forthcoming. 

The kid eases his back against a concrete pylon and starts inching himself up never taking his eyes off Dean. Dean gets the feeling that he’s one wrong move away from getting a knee in the crotch, it’s that kind of look. 

-I’m fine, the kid says and Dean might even have believed that if it wasn’t for the fact that the kid is now pale as a sheet and looking like he’s either going to pass out or throw up.   
-Sure you are, but you should get checked out just in case. You took a pretty bad beating there.   
-Not my first, the kid says tersely. 

Dad’s been on Dean’s case about the tendency he has to get overly invested in people on hunts. He’s got a wildly protective streak when it comes to kids getting caught up in that mess, even if it’s minor bullshit. Not to mention how little tolerance Dean’s always had for bullies and anyone picking on someone half their size. Dean’s always been the type to pick up strays, even though he knows he can’t keep them. Most strays you just patch up and feed before you send them on their way. 

The fact that someone’s beat on this kid enough that he’s thinking he can take this kind of punishment and just keep going is not a good sign. 

-Is there someone I can call for you? Dean asks, because he really wants this kid to get somewhere safe before he has to get going. 

If anything that makes the kid go even paler. Dean just watches him breathe for a long moment, trying to get himself under control, straighten up and distribute his weight more evenly. Kid’s in chock, has to be, but even with that he’s not asking any of the hysterical questions Dean’s expecting by now. He’s neither too calm, nor too frazzled and he’s not even flinching from the sting of it when he wipes the back of one grimy hand across his mouth and looks at the blood. It takes Dean long enough that he wants to fidget before he realizes the kid’s not going to answer. 

-Look, I can’t leave you here like this, so…   
-Fuck you, the kid cuts him off. “Give me a minute and I’ll be gone.” 

“And go where?” Dean thinks, because he’s starting to get the idea that the kid doesn’t have anywhere to go, anyone to call. The skate park has to be where the kid’s been sleeping, that’s why the thing went after him in the first place. It’s been feeding on runaways and homeless and anyone else that no one misses. Kid fits the profile.

So Dean asks. 

-You got somewhere to go? Somewhere safe?

The kid gives him a nod, a sharp jerky movement that means he’s not going to give up a goddamned thing about where he goes and how he plans on getting there. Dean figures it’s not his problem and tries really hard to tamp down on the instinct to move forward again and make the offer of taking him somewhere. 

They watch each other for a couple of minutes as the kid breathes, tries to stretch surreptitiously checking how banged up he is while Dean makes his own assessments and still waits for more of a standard reaction from someone who has just been attacked by what basically amounts to the bogeyman. 

Dean needs to salt and burn the thing he just plugged and the kid being here is no help. He is a witness, even if Dean thinks it’s pretty much established by this point that no one would listen to him even if he tried to tell this story. Just another fucked-up street kid who’s been sniffing too much glue on a cold night. Dean can wait for another couple of minutes, but then he really needs to get this show on the road. When Dean shifts his stance again the kid flinches, rights himself further and stands a little taller. Dean tries not to let it show, but he’s kind of impressed that the kid’s even on his feet still. The kid is watching him with a kind of open hostility that’s actually a little alarming. Dean shrugs. Tries for a smile. That gets him nothing. 

It’s when Dean starts to turn away to pick up the duffel with the supplies that the kid tries to make a break for it, takes two steps away from the concrete support behind his back and then pitches forward with an oddly balletic kind of grace and passes right the fuck out dropping next to where the creature is still oozing something that’s entirely too nasty to be blood. 

God-fucking-damn it. 

Dean’s got this tendency to pick up strays. Cats. Dogs. Kids. It’s always been that way. And John Winchester has explained to his son many times that’s not something he can afford to do with the life they lead. 

So Dean has no idea why he’s not just dumping this underfed, scrawny, angry, lanky kid at the closest hospital and driving off into the sunset. Sunrise. Whatever. 

There’s something about the way the kid handled himself. Something about how he so clearly said it wasn’t his first beating. Something about how he fought back even when the thing was right on top of him, allowing Dean the chance to get in close enough to take a shot. Something about how he so clearly doesn’t trust Dean and still didn’t freak out and didn’t want to show any kind of weakness. There’s a combination of things going on there, an odd mix of strength and vulnerability that Dean recognizes and responds to without even thinking about it. 

He takes the kid back to his motel. 

It’s such a bad idea. It’s such an epically bad idea that he’s more or less telling himself off for it in his dad’s voice the whole time he’s lugging the kid inside and dumping him carefully on the unmade bed. He thinks about how this is going to go so fucking wrong when the kid wakes up and realizes he doesn’t know where he is and that a strange guy is putting hands on him. Dean tells himself that he deserves everything he gets after that, even if it means the kid will nail him with one of those vicious kicks right in the jewels. 

As far as Dean can tell, the kid has a couple of bruised ribs, a twisted ankle, cut on his lip, black eye and a goose egg sized lump on the back of his head, which means … maybe a concussion. And something wrong with his shoulder. Which might explain the passing out. Or that might be delayed shock reaction. Or it might be the fact that Dean can see the kid’s clavicles and ribs too fucking obviously poking out through his skin like he hasn’t had a decent meal in months. No track marks. Yes, Dean checks. Nothing else about the kid says junky either, but he’s definitely living rough. Runaway, most likely. And not recently. 

Patch him up, feed him and release him back into the wild. That’s Dean’s plan. First, though, he’s going to make sure the kid doesn’t die from choking on his own vomit or slipping into a coma. 

Skinny, dirty kid with long unkempt hair and sharp angular features. Now that Dean’s got him in better light he can see faded bruises too, telling their own tale. 

At the first sign of a change in the kid’s respiration, Dean backs off all the way over to the chair in the corner by the door and sits down. He doesn’t think anything good would come from him looming over the kid when he wakes up. 

He gets his second surprise as the kid’s eyes open. 

He expected something violent, but what he gets is kind of fascinating. The kid opens his eyes, looks around, assessing, and then locks his gaze on Dean unflinchingly. 

They’re watching each other again and Dean doesn’t know what the hell to make of that flat lizard stare. 

-You said no hospital, Dean tells him with a shrug. 

The kid says nothing. 

-Okay, Dean tells him and nods, making up his mind. “I couldn’t leave you there, I couldn’t take you to the E.R. You have somewhere to go I can drive you right now. You don’t have anywhere to go? You’re free to stay here until you can get your feet under you. I got to tell you, though, I think you have a concussion and a busted ankle, so … I’ll patch you up. Keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t die in your sleep. How’s that sound?” 

Kid’s tracking everything he’s saying, doesn’t look too dazed, doesn’t seem too disoriented, but he’s holding himself really stiffly … and that’s not only from the pain. 

-Like it’ll cost me, the kid finally says and his voice is oddly soft and weary.   
-No strings, dude, Dean says and tries another smile. 

He still doesn’t get any kind of response to that. 

-Who are you and what really happened back there? The kid asks after another weighted pause.   
-Name’s Dean. Winchester, like the gun, and you know what you saw.   
-Nightmare came straight at me, the kid says in that same soft tired voice.   
-And I shot it in the head. Three times. 

The kid breaks the stare at that point and directs his gaze up to the ceiling instead. He lifts a hand to the back of his head and makes a complicated kind of face when he feels out the bump there. He doesn’t flinch, or wince or hiss, or even curse. Instead there’s something almost like amusement on his face. 

-You got a name? Dean asks, because he can’t keep thinking of the kid as The Kid. It’s getting annoying. 

More flat staring and something even worse, apprehension. And it’s like pulling teeth with this kid, it really is. Dean’s the goddamned hero here tonight. He’s going above and beyond. The kid doesn’t even look back at him when he lowers his hand to his ribs and feels those out the with the same careful thoroughness. 

-Sam, the kid says deadpan after another considering silence.   
-Nice to meet you, Sam, Dean says. 

That gets Dean a look. It’s the kind of look that makes it absolutely obvious what Sam thinks of his mental faculties, stating pretty plainly that Dean’s an idiot. 

-Look, you’ve had a rough night, so I’m going to lay it out for you real clear. Here’s what’s on offer: a shower, a hot meal if you can keep it down and a bed for the night. No strings, no funny business. 

Sam still looks disbelieving and really fucking tense and Dean gets it, he does, but he’s about three seconds away from just dumping the kid at the closest hospital and chalking it up to experience. He watches the way Sam is still feeling out the extent of his injuries while keeping a close eye on Dean the whole time. There’s restless energy building in Dean’s stomach, leftover adrenaline and something else. He wants to help the kid, he… just wants to help. 

-I saved your life tonight, he says and some of that restlessness comes across as irritation. “I think I’ve earned a little trust.”   
-Ever hear the expression ‘out of the fire’? Sam asks and it’s matter-of-fact and cold.   
-Oh, fuck off. Even if I was interested you’re in no shape, kid. I’m an ‘informed consent’ kind of guy, okay?   
-I’ll just take your word for that, Dean Winchester-like-the-gun, Sam says, sarcasm heavy. 

Dean knows about strays. They have issues, all of them. They’ve all been beaten, abused, mistreated, starved and bullied. They’ve all got scars and scrapes and healed over broken bones. They’ve all got problems trusting even the slightest kindness. The adrenaline is wearing on the kid, he’s going to crash as soon as he allows himself to relax even a fraction. Dean just has to coax him along to that point, prove that right now nothing bad is going to happen. 

Slowly, and with obvious difficulty, the kid starts to try and get up. Dean has to more or less sit on his hands not to move forward to help. Sam looks around and then frowns. 

-Did you see my backpack? He asks.   
-I got it. It’s in the car. 

Sam nods, winces, perches on the edge of the bed like he could spring to his feet and run straight out of here in a second. He’s acting like he’s being held hostage. He’s acting like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Dean to go after him somehow. He looks up at Dean through his curtain of hair and there’s something about that look that kicks Dean right in the gut. 

-Could you maybe get it for me, please? Sam asks in the politest tone Dean’s heard from him yet. Coupled with the eyes and the deferential body language it’s obvious he’s expecting Dean to refuse.   
-Sure. Just don’t try to bolt, okay? I mean it, Sam, I’m really just trying to help. 

Sam drops his gaze to the crazy carpet under his busted up sneakers. 

-Knight in shining armor and Good Samaritan, Sam says quietly by way of reply.   
-Damned straight, Dean confirms and stands.

It’s started raining, really coming down in buckets. 

Sam might be busted up and scrawny and hurt right now, but Dean checks Sam’s bag for weapons anyway. It’s not that he thinks Sam would try anything, but if it comes down to it, if Dean tries to really keep him in the room against his will, Dean’s pretty sure he would have a vicious fight on his hands. That happens with strays and he’d rather avoid that. Too much damage done to the kid already. He’s not intending to make that worse.


	2. Damage

Dean gets righteously soaked on the short walk from the car to the motel room door. He bustles in and finds Sam still sitting on the bed staring at the floor. Dean gets just close enough to be able to hand over the kid’s stuff without getting into his personal space. The bag’s surprisingly light. 

-You got any clean clothes? Dean asks. 

Sam shakes his head. 

-I've got some sweats you can borrow. Why don’t you go take a shower if you think you can stand on your own and then I’ll take a look at the damage, okay? 

Sam nods. 

Dean digs through his bag, grateful that he did laundry yesterday and puts some sweats and a t-shirt on the edge of the bed. 

The motel is one of those throwbacks that has a couch along one wall, a desk, a coffeemaker, a table, so even if there’s only one bed there’s still room to maneuver and Dean keeps thinking he’s grateful for that, because getting all up in Sam’s space would be bad right now. He still wants to help when Sam gets to his feet, but he stays back and just watches to make sure the kid doesn’t topple the second he’s vertical. 

Watching the kid go down like that had been pretty fucking horrific actually. Dean thought for a second that he must have missed some bigger injury, some bleeding gash somewhere. Now Sam sways on his feet and then gingerly starts making his way to the bathroom. He has his backpack in one hand, the clean clothes tucked under his arm and he’s holding on to the furniture and the wall as he slowly hobbles forward.

-Don’t… Dean starts and then shuts himself up. 

Sam casts a glance at him and raises an eyebrow. 

-Ah. Don’t take this the wrong way, Dean says with an apologetic shrug, “but… don’t lock the door. If you keel over…”  
-No, I get it, Sam says and his voice is just as hard and as flat as before. 

Once Sam is in the bathroom with the door meticulously closed behind him, but not locked, Dean sits down again and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s tired, smells like smoke and dirt and he really wants a shower and a couple of hours of shuteye himself. He’s not going to get those things just yet, though, so he gets back on his feet and starts a pot of coffee before picking up his phone. 

The call goes to voicemail when he tries dad, but he pretty much expected that. It’s not even dawn yet and dad’s been sketchy about picking up lately anyway. He leaves a short message - hunt went well, sticking around for a couple of days, no damage, nothing to worry about - and hopes that John just thinks he’s taking a little time for rest and relaxation. He’s not about to tell his dad that he’s helping a civilian. Much less one he stumbled across on a hunt.

Dean digs out the first aid kit and sets it on the small table and then waits for the coffee to get done while he listens to the patter of water from the shower make music with the rain against the windows. He’s got his own adrenaline crash to worry about, but that’s what coffee is for.

He really should get moving too. He’s not in the habit of sticking around once the job is done, that always gets messy. For a fleeting second he considers bundling Sam into the Impala and going at least one town over, but he can’t really see that working. Sam is skittish as all hell and Dean knows strays. 

The shower keeps running for a long time. Dean figures it’s probably for the best. Kid’s a mess.

When Sam finally emerges from the bathroom he’s got the sweats on and a towel slung over his shoulders. Not a great range of movement, limping hard and looking… angry. Dean can tell it’s not bravado. The kid is pissed. 

-Let’s get this over with, Sam snaps out and goes to sit on the chair by the table, back to Dean. 

It’s a little strange, but Dean figures that’s just the way the whole night has been going. He takes a couple of seconds to set down his coffee cup and then starts talking. It’s mostly so Sam won’t be startled and know where he is in the room. It’s so he doesn’t have to think too much about the scars he can see on Sam’s back. It’s so he doesn’t betray himself with how fucking angry that makes him, because he knows there are only a few specific things that leave scars like those. 

Sam’s got a scrape along his shoulder that’s bleeding a little. It doesn’t look like it will need stitches. There are bruises blooming under it and along his shoulder. The towel is slowly getting soaked by Sam’s long hair and Dean figures if the kid’s head was actually bleeding he’d be able to see that, but he still feels out the bump and carefully parts the hair to make sure that the skin is not broken. Sam is tense under his hands, but Dean doesn’t blame him. He’s got a stranger at his back and this is not a good night for that. Dean doubts that there’s ever been a good night for Sam for that kind of thing. 

Sam flinches when he pours antiseptic on the scrape and tapes it up, but he doesn’t make a sound. Dean works slowly and carefully, distancing himself and making sure to tell Sam exactly what he’s doing and why. Dean finds himself wanting to run the tips of his fingers along a particularly angry-looking jagged white line of a scar that spans most of Sam’s shoulders, but he tamps down the impulse. 

When he moves out in front of Sam he notices that the kid’s starting to sag a little. Tired and hurting and bleeding. He’s been through a lot tonight, and from the looks of it it’s not his first rodeo. Dean kneels down at Sam’s naked feet and takes his damaged ankle in a gentle grip prodding at it with the kind of expertise that only comes from having had to learn the difference between sprains, strains and breaks. He keeps talking too, a low, steady patter. He doesn’t say anything about the older injuries, the things that spell damage as clearly as if it was written in neon. He doesn’t say anything about the key Sam wears on a piece of string around his neck, either.

-Nothing broken, he determines after flexing Sam’s foot this way and that.   
-Could have told you that, Sam answers slurring just a little.   
-How’s the head?   
-Pupils even and responsive. No nausea. Big headache. Lost a couple of minutes, as far as I can tell.   
-Dude, you fainted like a little girl, Dean jibes back without thinking. 

Sam pulls his foot out of Dean’s grasp with a sharp movement. Dean looks up, startled, expecting a kick. 

-Hey, now, settle down. No need to get prickly, Dean says and moves forward again, aiming to at least wrap the kid’s ankle before he’s had enough. 

He reaches slowly and Sam lets him take the foot, a little twitch in his muscles like he’d really rather not have to deal with Dean at all. Dean can’t blame him. While Dean’s busy doing that Sam pulls the borrowed shirt over his head with the kind of set jaw determination that betrays how much he’s still hurting. 

-I’ll get you some Tylenol in a minute, Dean says. 

Sam looks over at the med kit and draws it closer. He rummages around, finding a blister pack of painkillers. Makes sense that he’d go for that. Dean would be impressed with Sam’s level of paranoia and caution if it wasn’t all currently directed squarely at him. Good to know the kid can look out for himself. Bad to understand why he’s acting the way he does. Sam swallows the pills dry and looks on impassively as Dean finishes up with the ACE bandage. 

-All set, Dean says and gets to his feet. “I’m thinking I’ll need to go out in that mess and get us something to eat. You get to stay here and elevate that foot.” 

Sam’s gaze snaps to him, brows furrowing. Dean has trust issues too, sure, but right now he isn’t too concerned about leaving Sam alone. Worst case scenario he’s gone when Dean gets back, but he wouldn’t get far on that ankle in this weather and Dean’s got nothing in the room worth stealing so he just nods and goes to put his jacket on. 

-Anything in particular you’d like for breakfast, Sam? Dean asks when he’s standing at the door.   
-‘S your dime, the kid answers. 

Dean feeds street kids sometimes. He’ll take some hungry looking starveling to the closest diner and feed them up until they’re a little less shaky and pale. He knows that line. It means “everything on the menu”. Dean can do that. 

Driving in the grey slush of rainy dawn Dean thinks about the times he’s eaten at Salvation Army soup kitchens listening to some well intentioned holy roller singing Amazing Grace while the hapless and luckless suck down plain but nourishing soup. It’s not like Dean hasn’t had rough patches over the years. Dad’s had his deadbeat bum moments, especially around the time of year when their family had their big tragedy. Truth be told Dean doesn’t really remember much about it. Dean doesn’t think it matters, either way. 

Dad’s been on this road for a long-ass time, dealing with grief and loss the only way he knows how. Dean’s met enough hunters and paramilitary fringe dwellers to know that not everyone came home from the war with a full deck. Not that he’d ever going to say that to his father. He knows there’s a difference between living and just surviving. 

Dean doesn’t know any other life, so for him to feel nostalgic about a home he never had and a mom he truthfully doesn’t even remember doesn’t make much sense. His road and his dad’s road are not the same. They bisect and overlap, but their motivations are vastly different. 

In a drunken confessional mood John sometimes waxes poetic about the kind of life they’ll have once they’ve caught mom’s killer. There’s a house and steady jobs and a nice little wife for Dean which means grandkids for dad and everything smelling of roses. Dean says “yeah, dad” and “sure, dad” and doesn’t bother reminding his father that he hasn’t had a residential address for well over a decade and only got his GED because John threatened with bodily harm if he didn’t. It’s not like anyone in their right mind is going to hire a gun toting drifter and then invite them into their house to court their daughter. Dad’s got a screw loose when it comes to this whole apple pie normal life in Dean’s humble opinion. Not that he’s going to say that out loud either.

Dean finds a parking spot close to the door of the diner and the place is only half full, it’s too early for anything like a breakfast crowd yet. The beautiful smell of freshly brewed coffee greets him along with the surprisingly chipper smile on the waitress and Dean orders two of everything, figures they’ll eat, crash, wake up and have a second breakfast if there’s anything left when the kid’s done. Kid needs feeding up. The long knobbly spine showing clearly under Sam’s skin as he hunched forward and the lean length of muscle covering it didn’t even have a protective layer of fat. Bruises on the bone. And those fucking scars. A whip and a knife, belt and a blade, Dean doesn’t like the options. Kid hasn’t had anyone to look after him. Obviously. 

There are a couple of slightly rumpled cops sitting at the counter, coffee in front of them. Dean gives them a nod god morning and sits a couple of seats away while he waits for breakfast. He makes sure to order soup. Dean tries to pick up on anything about a strange fire at an old skate park, but he’s in luck today. Makes him wish he’d taken the time to shower before he went for food. He probably smells like smoke.

The kid is still there when Dean gets back to the motel. He’s sitting propped up against the headboard with his eyes on the door and a knife in his hand. Dean can appreciate the need for a weapon after a night like this, but he doesn’t like how the cold gleam in Sam’s eyes lingers even after he’s confirmed that it’s just Dean coming through the door. Hurt and spooked and still angry, then. Doesn’t make for a restful sleep, if they ever get around to that part of the deal. 

Dean holds up the bag. 

-Soup? He asks.   
-Coffee? Sam counters.   
-Sure. 

Dean doles out coffee and some eggs, bacon and sausage combo that the waitress insisted on calling a “smokehouse special”. Sam eats it so neatly he doesn’t leave a crumb on the bed and Dean turns the TV on just for some background noise. He gets distracted for a while by the local news, but there’s still nothing about strange fires or misshapen corpses. When he next glances over at Sam, the kid is sipping the last of his coffee and looking decidedly mulish. 

Dean figures there’s something about that he should be thinking more about, but then gives the mental equivalent of a shrug and goes for his own overdue shower. He’s been wet and cold and smoked and wet again a few too many times in the last twenty-four to skip it. The water never makes it past lukewarm so it’s a pretty grim affair, but at least he gets clean. 

When Dean walks back out Sam has listed to the side and fallen asleep still mostly sitting up with one pillow under his bandaged foot. 

There’s this cliché that kids look innocent when they sleep. This kid? Not so much. He looks like he’s been through a ringer, thin and drawn and still tense and uncomfortable. Dean can see the handle of the kid’s knife sticking out from where it’s tucked just out of sight by his right hand. The bruise around his eye is coming in nicely, a hectic red melting to blues and he’s just overall a really tragic banged-up mess. Dean’d take a fifty dollar bet, though, that if he tried to approach the bed right now, Sam would be up and off it like a startled cat, and that knife would wind up somewhere interesting. 

Dean scrubs a towel through his hair one last time and then goes over to the couch and lays down. He’s a little wired still, but he’s lagging. Figures he might as well be horizontal for a while. As he lays there he thinks about all of this. Okay, so Dean’s taken care of strays before. He’s fed some and dropped others at hospitals, relatives’, friend’s houses. He’s bandaged cuts and scrapes. He’s done a lot, actually, but he has never, not once, taken one back to his own room and cared for them like this. What’s unsettling about this night is that it never even occurred to him that there’s something wrong with the impulse, even taking Sam’s attitude into account, and that makes this something new. 

Dean’s not naïve, not by the longest of longshots. He knows he freaked Sam out tonight and he knows that no matter how hard he worked on gaining even the modicum of trust required for Sam to allow him to help, Sam doesn’t trust him, not really. There is no reason Dean can think of why that should set up a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. 

Dad used to always tell him that he’s too much of a softie with kids he runs across like this. Dad always preaches that they will take advantage of Dean, take his money and his kindness and one day he’s going to get a knife in the ribs for his troubles. If there ever was a candidate for that course of action it would be Sam. But then, on the other hand, Dean just took the kid home with him like it was self-evident. It’s weird. Could be the circumstance. Could be the rain and the blood on the kid and the knock to the head and the … well, frankly, Dean kind of likes the attitude. There’s something about this kid. 

He’s still thinking about all of that, about what it is he likes about how down-right hostile Sam is, when he drops off to sleep himself. 

When he wakes up it’s late in the day, the sun is trying desperately to break through the cloud cover, his sweats lay neatly folded on the edge of the well-made bed … and Sam is gone.


	3. A Ride

Dean eats the remnants of his cold breakfast, noticing that one of the cups of chicken noodle are missing with a wry grin. He packs up, hands in his key and checks his phone for missed calls. There’s nothing, not that he really expected there to be. 

As he starts heading out of town he can’t help thinking that he would have liked to get to see if Sam was a little less bitchy in the morning. He would have liked to see Sam smiling, come to think of it. It’s a random thought, just one of those fleeting things that flitter in and out and around thinking about what he needs to get done, where he could go next, what’s on the agenda. 

He really doesn’t have anything lined up and he pretty much bought himself a couple of days grace from dad with the call last night. There’s nothing but the open road and the radio for company. The sun lost the battle and the sky’s heavy with pregnant clouds and just as he makes a turn towards the exit the sky opens up again. Dean’s about to pass by the bus station when he spots a lanky, tall figure limping away from it with a duffle in one hand and a backpack over his shoulder. 

Dean doesn’t even think, he just reacts, changing lanes and pulling up next to the kid. Sam looks over his shoulder at the rumble of the engine coming up next to him. Dean leans over, cranking down the window and doesn’t smile, even if he wants to. 

-Need a ride? He asks. 

Sam’s expression is apprehensive, but he already looks like a drenched cat and that’s the angle Dean’s going to play. 

-What do you want? He asks and stubbornly trudges on.   
-Come on, Sam, get in so we can talk. 

Sam stops, so Dean stops and then he just waits. Sam shuffles a little in one spot, getting progressively more soaked and Dean lets him have his little battle. Pride is costly sometimes, but this is about more than that. If Sam gets in the car they’re going to have to have a second round of negotiations. 

-Look, I appreciate what you did, but…  
-Get in the car, kid.   
-I’m not going to…  
-Get in the damned car, Sam, Dean snaps and wonder of wonders, Sam huffs out an irritated breath and yanks open the door. 

Dean uses the moment it takes Sam to bundle himself and his belongings into the passenger seat to kill his grin. Sam stares out the window and rainwater drips from his hair and Dean should be careful, but he’s actually in a pick-up zone so he slides the car back into traffic before Sam can get the door open again. 

-Hey! Sam barks out startled and reaches for the handle anyway.   
-Relax, Dean tells him, “I couldn’t idle.” 

Sam is tensing up worse with each passing second. 

-So, where’d you want me to drop you? Dean asks.   
-Huh?  
-You’re going somewhere in this mess and I’m giving you a ride there, so … where can I drop you? 

Dean already sort of knows the answer to that one. That key around Sam’s neck was obviously for one of the bus station lockers and if he had enough money for a ticket he would have been at the terminal, waiting. Sam can’t make it anywhere on foot right now, not with that ankle, so he’s hitching. Doubtful anyone in their right mind would pick him up the way he’s looking, all bruises and scowl and busted lip. And Dean’s got a car, money for gas and nowhere to be. It’s a no-brainer as far as Dean’s concerned. 

Now he’s just got to convince the bundle of nerves next to him. 

-Truck stop up the road, Sam bites out. 

Dean glances over and there’s that mulish look again. 

-Sam, man, come on, Dean says and he can hear how disbelief is coloring his tone.   
-You’ve done enough, Sam answers and it’s some bastard mix of thankful, reserved and that disturbingly flat tone again.   
-Do you believe in providence, Sam? Fate, karma, that kind of thing? Dean asks.

He was aiming for a light, bantering mood there so the spooked look that Sam gives him doesn’t make any kind of sense. 

-You need a ride, I got a car. It’s raining. Come on, this is not rocket science. 

The trundle of the tires against the road is the only noise for a while. They’ve already blown past the truck stop when Sam speaks up. 

-Do you even get why I want to get the hell away from you? Sam asks.   
-Not really, Dean answers. “I’m a joy to be around.” 

Sam flat out glares at him for that. 

-Alright, Dean says and pulls over into the parking lot of some big outlet shopping mall, killing the engine and turning towards the kid. 

Sam’s eyes are back to assessing him again. 

-Okay, Dean say. “Same deal as last night. Here’s what’s on offer: I take you where you need to go, no questions asked. I’ll even throw in a burger or two along the way. No strings. You won’t owe me anything.” 

The kid looks at him, still awkwardly hugging his backpack to his chest. He’s dripping wet, banged-up, freaked out and in need of help. That’s all this is. Dean really tries not to think about how he could spot the kid and recognize him out of the corner of his eyes after having known him less than a day. He’s trying not to think about how he’s actually glad to have the kid sitting next to him, dripping on the leather. 

-You don’t get it, Sam tells him.   
-So explain it to me, Dean offers. 

Sam chews the words before they come out of his mouth like they have a physical weight and density to them. 

-I’m not heading towards anything. I’m going away from.   
-Ah, runaway. Who could have guessed? Dean snarks, because that tone? That’s just insulting.   
-I don’t fucking know you, I don’t trust you and I don’t… 

Dean decides that he’s just about had enough of that. 

-I saved your life. I’ve done nothing but exactly what I said I would do. I haven’t tried anything and I won’t try anything. I’m not looking to do anything but help you out, kid, okay?   
-Not a kid, the kid says.   
-Yes, you are, Dean answers. 

Sam moves a lot faster than Dean thought he’d be capable of. The backpack is in the footwell and Sam’s twisted into his space with that wicked little switchblade pressed right up against Dean’s inner thigh, high enough to hit a major artery if he shoots the blade. His other hand closes around the butt of the gun Dean’s got tucked into his belt at the side and he’s staring unblinkingly right into Dean’s eyes. 

-What do you want from me? he asks and every word is clearly pronounced and ice cold. 

Dean’s inappropriately pleased by the whole thing, twisted as that might seem. The kid can take care of himself, he’s proving it right now. He’s a vicious thing, this bedraggled, wet scrawny stray. Dean would love to see what he can turn into with a little care and feeding. He’s thinking impossible things right now with Sam threatening to emasculate him and it’s just so typical of how Dean’s life works that he can’t help but smile, even if he knows that’s bound to piss the kid off worse. 

-Every once in a while I like to do something nice for someone, Dean says. “Good Samaritan, remember?”   
-You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Sam tells him and presses harder with his knife hand. 

It sends a spark of interest along Dean’s spine, hard enough that he starts to perk up a little. Occupational hazard, Dean gets a little riled by danger and this is reading like threats and promises and sometimes Dean’s body likes to think of that as foreplay. He hasn’t been this entertained by a civilian in a long time. And he’s starting to suspect Sam’s less of a civilian than he originally thought. 

-So explain it to me, he says and relaxes his whole body, letting Sam draw his own conclusions from that.   
-What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?  
-Oh, that’s easy. Just let me help you. 

Sam doesn’t even bother hiding the disgust as he rolls his eyes and moves out of Dean’s space with a sliding grace that’s almost as interesting as the speed of the attack. The confidence of the movements is only a little marred by the fact that Sam’s clearly hurting again by now. The painkillers must have worn off hours ago. Dean really needs to see if he can’t get the kid to take some more of those. Preferably with some food. 

-Sam, I hunt monsters for a living. You saw me. Do you have any idea how often people go into complete denial and try to run in the other direction after the shooting is over? Or, how often they turn right around and accuse me of being some kind of freak? You stared that thing right in the face and took a goddamned swing at it. That merits … shit, I don’t know? A leg up? You’re running? Well, I’m on the road anyway. I can help you get lost if that’s what you need.   
-You’re completely cracked, Sam says evenly.   
-It’s been said, Dean shoots back, still all easy calm and open body language. 

And just like that, Dean knows he’s got him. Sam stares out the window again, rain coming down hard around them, battering the car, making it seem impossibly close and intimate. Sam is working on talking himself into why this is not a bad idea and Dean just lets him. It takes another couple of minutes and then Sam glances over at him. 

-Where are you headed? Sam asks.   
-Does it matter? Dean shoots back. 

Sam sighs. 

-Guess not. 

Dean grins, big and broad and leans forward, starts the engine and guides them back into traffic. 

Another hour down the road and Dean’s managed to get some painkillers and a sandwich into Sam. Ten minutes after that the kid is sleeping like the dead curled up in the passenger seat with his backpack for a pillow. He’s coiled defensively, and Dean knows this doesn’t mean that the kid trusts him, but at least he’s earned enough points that Sam can relax a little. Dean wonders if the kid ever really slept last night. Wonders when he last felt safe enough to sleep at all. The rumble of the engine and the patter of the rain and Dean in the driver seat, armed and well caffeinated seems to do the trick, though. And Dean’s glad, fiercely glad, that he can do this for Sam, that Sam’s here with him. 

He knows that probably means he’s in trouble. 

Asking Sam questions about his personal history gets Dean a very eloquent “fuck off”. The kid isn’t big on sharing, isn’t exactly ready for the whole “getting to know you” spiel, but Dean isn’t used to having to censor where his mind roams when he’s just driving and talking about nothing. He isn’t really used to having anyone in the car with him, well, not since he and dad split up, but that’s a couple of years by now and John was never a big talker. So Dean rambles a little and he’s using that to try and work Sam. 

Sam doesn’t allow himself to be worked. It’s not like Dean expected him to be an open book after the precarious peace he managed to negotiate, but it would be nice if he could get something out of the kid. Anything. 

-You say you hunt monsters, Sam cuts in right in the middle of Dean telling some rambling story about how he and dad ran into a bunch of history reenactment buffs on a hunt once and almost loaded them full of salt rounds.   
-Like that thing that went after you, yeah, Dean says. 

Sam keeps his eyes on the road ahead of them. Dean only spares him a short glance. 

-How do you know? Sam asks.   
-How do I know what?   
-Who the monsters are, Sam clarifies and his voice is soft and subdued, distant. 

There’s a story there, Dean thinks. It probably has something to do with those scars, with the things he’s been through that he’s so determinedly not telling Dean about. 

-Depends on what kind they are. Mostly we start with a trail of dead bodies and work our way back from there. 

Sam doesn’t ask anything more after that and Dean lets him be, turning the radio to some station that more or less plays endless rock’n’roll without too much DJ bullshit. Sam digs out a book from his backpack and settles down to read, pages turning in a steady pace that somehow translates into something homey for Dean. It’s weird how not strange all this is. Dean’s used to being on his own in a way that means he will sometimes go actively looking for company in the evenings because he’s so fucking sick of his own thoughts. 

Sam in the passenger seat feels right. 

Dean already knows this is definitely a catch and release. Even if Dean would want to keep the kid, Sam is not going to let him. If Dean’s lucky he’ll be able to hold on to Sam until he’s a little less black and blue, a little less starved and sharp-looking. Dean’s thinking in terms of feral rescue cats and how they do better when you don’t try to hold on to them, let them come to you when they’re ready. He’s aware that there’s a mess of things about Sam that he doesn’t know and that could cause problems in the immediate future. 

Dean’s also thinking that he needs to hook the kid up with some resources. Pastor Jim, if the kid doesn’t have issues with men of the cloth. Definitely Bobby, who has taken in at least three of the dogs Dean’s picked up over the years. Bobby even took in Rocky, the ginger tabby tom with one ear missing that swaggered around the scrap yard like his balls where four sizes bigger than they really were and kicked the dogs’ collective asses on a regular basis. 

Which makes Dean wonder if Sam has any skills. And how old he really is. And how he’s been getting by. And what he’s running from. And where he was born, where his family is, who gave him those scars. 

Not that Sam will let him ask about any of that.


	4. Smile

Dean’s just rounding the corner from the bathrooms back into the bar when he hears Sam saying “nothing without a condom” and that answers some questions. It paints a pretty ugly picture, all told, but it’s not like the idea hadn’t already flitted around in the back of Dean’s head. Damn it. 

He makes eye contact with Sam and shakes his head, just to see what the kid will do. Sam is still black and blue, too skinny and too … starved-looking. Like he doesn’t have anything or anyone. It’s the kind of look that means he will attract the wrong kind of attention, something Dean’s pretty familiar with himself. He’s not judging Sam, that’s not what this is. It isn’t about some misguided moral imperative and Dean’s willing to bet that if the guy, the trick, tried anything he would get really well acquainted with that wicked little blade Sam carries, but Dean doesn’t want the kid to do this. Not here. Not now. Not on Dean’s watch. 

Sam just gives him that flat stare. 

The guy propositioning Sam is easily startled, though, and takes off like Dean lit a fire under his ass. Sam doesn’t even bother trying to talk to Dean, he just goes to walk right past him. Dean stops him with a hand on his elbow, a gentle grip, not restraining, just signaling that he has something to say. 

-Not a good idea, kid, Dean tells him.   
-Not my idea in the first place, Sam answers tugging his elbow free. 

So Sam hadn’t solicited. That’s something. It’s still enough to make Dean nod towards the exit instead of going back into the bar proper. 

He had sat them at a booth, ordered burgers and coke and then waited until the crowd got rowdy enough that no one cared about the pool games he hustled, or the fact that Sam was clearly underage, sitting in a corner quietly reading his book. As long as Dean made sure all the kid had was coke the bartender didn’t mind. Dean made just enough off the game to make sure they could keep going for a couple of days before he had to take a break. 

Now he thinks he desperately wants to get them the hell out of this bar. Sam doesn’t even seem perturbed by the whole thing, which means he’s definitely been in situations like that before. Once they’re back in the car in search of a motel Dean looks over and takes in the way Sam is holding himself. Dean wants to make sure Sam doesn’t misunderstand him. 

-Look… he says, but Sam just holds up a hand to silence him.   
-You can’t possibly be trying to take the moral high ground with me.   
-How old are you, Sammy?   
-Old enough.   
-You don’t have to do that as long as you’re riding with me, okay? I’ll take care of it, Dean says, thinking “of us, of you. I’ll take care of you”, but he makes damned sure not to say anything like that out loud. 

Sam scoffs. 

It’s been a couple of days and Dean still hasn’t been able to get a smile out of the kid. Or much of anything else either for that matter, other than the fact that the kid likes to read, doesn’t like to sleep and still doesn’t trust Dean further than he could throw him. And he’s a sarcastic little shit, too.

-I mean it.   
-From what I’ve seen you’re a smalltime crook, a hustler and a pickpocket. That’s when you’re not posing as a cop or using one of your fake credit cards to pay for whatever shitty motel we’ll wind up in. 

Yeah, well, when you put it like that… Still, there’s hustling and then there’s hustling. 

-You play pool at all? Dean asks.   
-Well enough. Mostly have trouble getting into bars, though. 

An idea takes shape in Dean’s mind and it’s such a beautifully twisted little thing that he can’t help but smile at it. 

-Want to double team? He asks, glancing over at Sam. 

Sam looks back at him with one of those indecipherable looks that Dean finds utterly fascinating. The kid’s poker face is so good Dean can’t get a clear read on him. Dean wonders for a moment if the kid could do innocent and naïve too. Then he thinks about Sam’s face when he asked for his backpack that first night and figures Sam is able to pull that off nicely. 

-I hope you’re talking about pool, Sam says calmly. 

There’s a tone there, something vague and dark that sends one of those hot tingles down Dean’s spine. Sam sounding rougher and just a little bit dangerous does bad, bad things to Dean and if he isn’t careful the kid’s going to pick up on it. 

-Beats selling your ass, Dean says to see if he can rattle Sam.  
-That was never for sale, Sam shoots back, calm and unruffled. 

Dean wants so badly to ask what was for sale but he keeps that thought to himself along with the imagery that goes with it. 

-Seriously, though, Dean says. “That’s the better way to earn. I can watch your back that way and you get to be the ingénue. If you’re any good. If you’re not as good as you think you are we’ll figure something out.”   
-I’m every bit as good as I think I am, Sam says and again the energy of it hangs in the air, Sam sounding far more experienced than he has any right to and vaguely challenging. 

It’s just indistinct enough that Dean can’t call him on it, though. Dean spots a motel that boasts “comfortable and affordable” on the sign and pulls into the parking lot. He gets them a room and it’s nothing special. He’s had more comfortable and more affordable, but it’ll do for the night. 

They’re still heading away from whatever it is that Sam is on his way away from. Dean still hasn’t heard anything from dad, but he figures he’s about due a set of coordinates any day now. 

They do need to have another talk, Sam and him, about where they’re going and what Sam wants to do next, but Sam hasn’t demanded to be dropped at a bus station yet, so Dean figures they’re good for a little while. If Sam decides to stick around Dean’s going to have to give him the Monsters 101, just so he won’t get caught in the crossfire. Teach him to protect himself, or, well, teach the kid how to protect himself from that kind of danger. Come to think of it, Dean should probably have been working on that already. 

-The night we met, Dean says when Sam has shuffled in and dropped his bags on one of the beds.  
-What about it?   
-Was that the first time you got caught up in something like that? Dean asks.   
-Something…?   
-Supernatural, Dean clarifies. 

Sam sits down on the bed and looks up at Dean. There’s the expression Dean was thinking would make Sam seem innocent and young. It’s a tilted, under-the-bangs look that makes him seem childlike and wide-eyed. It really shouldn’t work as well as it does if you take into consideration that Dean’s seen Sam’s less innocent side. Dean can’t tell if it’s a mask, a fake. That pisses him off a little. He should have figured out Sam’s tells by now.

-No, Sam says finally. “Never seen anything like that before, though.” 

Dean nods at the kid and sits down on the other bed, facing him. He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. 

-But you’ve seen something? Experienced something? 

Sam nods. 

-Want to tell me about it? Dean asks.   
-I was in the system and then on the streets. I’ve seen all kinds of weird shit, Sam says. “I don’t want to talk about any of it.”   
-Okay. I’m going to teach you some things, Dean says. 

It comes out a little wrong, but Dean can’t do anything about that. It’s just that Sam looks like he needs protection. Fuck, the kid looks like he needs a hug right about now. Dean’s not going to try it, though. Feral and scrappy does not equal “will respond well to random uninvited cuddles”. And Dean doesn’t think he’s ever had a draw like this with anyone. He feels different around this kid, feels like there’s more to this than he’s got a grasp on yet. 

-What kinds of things? Sam asks.   
-How to protect yourself against some of what’s out there.   
-Only some of it?  
-I’ve been doing this for a long time and there’s a lot of stuff.   
-How old are you? Sam asks immediately.   
-Twenty-one.   
-Hardly ancient.   
-No, but I was brought up in this. My dad taught me everything I know and I’ve been hunting since I was just a kid.   
-Where’s he now?   
-Doing his own thing. We split up, cover more ground. 

Sam isn’t easy to read, that much is true, but he clearly doesn’t like that. Dean can’t figure out why, but he’s not got much of a hope figuring this kid out, so it’s got to be something to do with family. Bound to be a touchy subject. 

-I want to be sure that you can take care of yourself, Dean tells him.   
-That’s very generous of you, Sam says and he’s either being so sarcastic it reads as sincere or he really means it. Dean can’t tell. 

Dean starts with the bare basics. He talks about all the things that are real, about the things that they’ve fought, him and dad, about the staples, salt and silver, holy water, things that he learned about when he was just a kid himself. Sam asks surprisingly incisive questions and Dean likes that about him, even if it’s frustrating as hell sometimes because Dean doesn’t always know why things work the way they do. He’s mostly satisfied knowing that things work and doesn’t bother with the theory behind it. Sam wants to know everything. 

Usually, with civilians, there’s a lot of disbelief, a lot of arguing and denial. Sam doesn’t do any of that, but Dean can’t tell if that’s because he believes what Dean’s telling him, or if it’s because he thinks Dean is crazier than a shit house rat. It doesn’t really matter at the moment, either, because this is all theory. Chances are, if they stick together for a while, Sam will get to see some of the things Dean’s talking about for himself. Seeing is believing. That’s twice as true when you’re dealing with ghosts and werewolves. 

-Do you know how to shoot? Dean asks.

Sam just looks at him. 

-I’ve seen you with that pig sticker you carry, but can you fire a gun? Dean clarifies.   
-Yes.   
-You any good? 

Sam shrugs. Could mean anything, but Dean’s willing to bet the kid will be better than he lets on. There’s something about Sam that says he’s probably going to be good at all the things that Dean would like to teach him. 

-I’ll take you out and we’ll see how you do with target practice.   
-Sure, Sam says and then gets up to use the bathroom, effectively ending the conversation. 

That’s another thing about Sam that’s taking some getting used to. Dean’s not accustomed to someone ending a conversation by just getting up and walking away, but that’s a thing Sam does. It should read as teenage truculence but for some reason, with Sam it just doesn’t. Sam gets up and walks away when he’s done talking for a while and Dean has to let him. He’s still got this feeling that if he pushes just a little too hard Sam will be gone when he wakes up in the morning. 

Dean’s a light sleeper, so he would probably wake up in time to at least ask Sam what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but Sam is not the kind of stray that you can lock in at night, even if you’re only doing it to keep him safe. Hell, Sam gets antsy when Dean sits between him and the door. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop and the only thing Dean can do to make that better is to keep proving that he’s not a bad guy. Or, that he’s at least not the kind of bad guy that Sam has to worry about. Hopefully. 

Dean finds them an open field the next day. Sets up cans on a fence and isn’t the least bit surprised when Sam knocks them down. He needs practice, sure, but he’s still good, just like Dean thought he would be. Normal kid would have had a big grin on his face, like Dean’s got, but Sam just looks grimly focused and a little more closed off than usual when he hands the rifle back to Dean. 

-How do you feel about handguns? Dean asks, smiling.   
-I don’t any feelings about them one way or the other as long as they’re not pointed at me, Sam answers in that mild, flat tone of his that doesn’t give anything away but still tells Dean there’s a hell of a lot behind it. Stories the kid’s never going to tell, probably. 

Stories that Dean would love to hear, and is a little scared of being told because if they are bad enough, they’re going to make him want to hurt someone. Dean doesn’t want to be that guy, but he’s already got the beginning of a very strong protective vibe towards Sam and if Sam starts telling the kind of bad stories that involve someone pointing a gun at him, Dean might actually lose it a little. 

-Okay, hang on, Dean says and goes to get the Taurus out of the trunk. 

He runs through standard gun safety first, already pretty sure Sam knows and then loads a full clip and hands it over. 

-Finger off the trigger ‘til you’re ready to shoot. Don’t point at anything you’re not willing to take down. It does kick some, so be ready. 

There’s a moment, just a slim glimmer of a moment, when Sam is holding the gun, taking a stance and sighting down the barrel when Dean thinks he maybe shouldn’t have handed over a fully loaded 9 mm to a kid he doesn’t really know, who he might be stupid to trust this far. It’s not like Sam hasn’t already shown that he can be dangerous, but he isn’t volatile. Not with Dean, not so far. 

The kid burns through a clip getting a feel for the gun and then starts picking the cans off the fence with the kind of ease that shows he could be a real marksman given a little time and patience. The only thing that doesn’t sit right with Dean is the complete absence of … enthusiasm, for lack of a better word. Sam goes about shooting like it’s a piece of work he needs to get done. Dean figures not everyone likes guns, or, you know, grew up wanting to be allowed to handle them. Sam still looks right like this, like it’s something he can do. Like it’s something he should do, maybe. 

Dean just wishes it would make the kid smile.


	5. Trust

They are getting along pretty well, some of the tension seems to seep out of Sam over time, his bruises fade and he’s moving better, his ankle all but healed up and his shoulder less sore. Dean can even get a kind of half smile out of the kid, a lift to just one side of his mouth and a different light in his eyes. 

So, of course, that’s when Dean fucks it all up. 

He gets a text from dad, coordinates, the usual. He doesn’t know if dad will be there, if they’re meeting up, or if this is a solo gig. If they are meeting up then dad’s going to blow a gasket over Sam, that’s pretty much a given. He’s held the speech about not picking up any partners that haven’t been vetted by at least two other hunters enough times, and Sam’s a complete unknown. 

Worse than that, Sam isn’t strictly speaking a hunter at all. And dad’s going to hate what Dean’s doing, no matter how good Dean’s explanations and reasons might be. Dean knows all this, he can picture the look on dad’s face, the stern disappointment and the suspicion and the inevitable interrogations to follow. Dean thinks putting Sam and dad in the same room might be a bad idea for everyone involved, but still he isn’t ready to give Sam up. 

What he can’t do is go into the situation without at least being able to give dad some answers about who Sam is, and it isn’t like he actually knows much of anything about the kid, apart from what little he’s been able to glean from Sam’s actions. Sam doesn’t talk about himself. Hell, Dean doesn’t even know the kid’s last name. Sam still doesn’t really trust Dean and that’s bad enough, or maybe the way Sam keeps him in the dark is Sam’s way of testing Dean to see if he’s willing to take this much on faith. He’s not sure about Sam’s motives. All he knows is that he likes having the kid around, and if dad is planning on them meeting up then he’s going to have to find out if Sam’s willing to go along with that and share a little information about himself. Just enough that Dean can get him past dad’s mistrust. Dean thinks he’s going to have to start by explaining some of dad’s eccentricities before they actually meet up with the man. 

Then, on the other hand, dad might not even be there and then this whole thing is completely moot. If dad’s not there then Dean’s just going to be exposing Sam to a lot of family drama that he doesn’t need and probably will react poorly to. Dad’s not easy to explain, or understand. The choices he’s made, how he goes about his business… it’s all difficult to really comprehend if you don’t comprehend the man himself. Over the years Dean’s had to defend dad to Bobby and Caleb and even Pastor Jim, who is one of the most sanguine men Dean’s ever met. 

It’s not like Dean doesn’t get that all that is probably going to be too much for Sam, who is still skittish about traveling with Dean, and who clearly doesn’t respond well to authority. Sam has that deep down seething distrust that any kid that’s been messed around with too much gets. He can take care of himself and sometimes Dean actually forgets that the kid is still just a kid. He gets reminded forcibly when they’re around other people, though, like when a waitress in a diner looked at Sam and said things like “and what can I get a handsome young man like yourself today, sweetie?” and Sam gave her this sweet-faced look complete with big puppy dog eyes. 

Dean knows dad will flip his lid about Sam and, most likely, Sam will bridle under dad’s authority. Dean’s had to cajole and convince and reason Sam into things since the night they met. 

Unfortunately, Dean’s an idiot, so instead of sitting Sam down and explaining it all to him and hoping that Sam will let him in, Dean takes the opportunity when Sam’s in the shower and goes through the kid’s backpack. 

Sam’s protective of that backpack in ways that means that whatever Dean can find out about him, it’s going to be in there. He sleeps with it on the inside of his bed. He carries it everywhere, never leaves it in the car when they go for food. It’s scuffed and battered and doesn’t weigh much. Dean thinks for just a second that he’s about to do something stupid and then he thinks about his reasons and does it anyway. 

What Dean learns is that Sam is smart. 

Sam is actually scary smart. 

He’s also seventeen years old, an emancipated minor and has three names. “Baby Boy John Doe” is one of them, and that tells a pretty horrific story all in itself. There’s the name “Sam” added to that at some later date, and then a foster name “Ashbrook”. Sam’s birthday is an approximation at best and there’s a record of families and foster homes that have taken him in and then dropped him again. Dean doesn’t look too closely at any of that, he can already feel the bubble of anger in his stomach from how many people have taken Sam on and then discarded him. 

The scary smart part shows in how he’s got papers that talk about early admission to college and a couple of pages of talk about how Sam’s been in the “gifted” program since he was twelve. That, coupled with the frankly alarming number of homes and families Sam’s been in is really mind-blowing. 

-The fuck are you doing? Sam’s voice hisses behind Dean and he’s still too caught up in what he just read to even register the blazing anger in Sam’s voice until Sam is right in front of him yanking the papers out of his hands. 

Dean doesn’t have a hope in hell of covering for this. When he looks into Sam’s eyes he can tell that whatever modicum of trust he’s managed to build over the last days he just lost it. Sam’s hair is curling wetly over the collar of one of Dean’s t-shirts that Sam’s appropriated and his sharp features are set severe. He’s stuffing all the papers back in the folder and then shoving that into the backpack. 

-Look, Dean starts, but Sam cuts him off with a glare. 

Dean watches as Sam tugs on his hoodie and then starts hunting down the few things he actually took out of his duffel when they checked in. It takes Dean’s brain a moment to reboot enough for him to figure out that this is Sam getting ready to leave. 

-Shit, Sam, wait, Dean says getting to his feet and grabbing hold of the strap to the duffel that Sam is trying to zip closed.   
-Get the fuck off me, Sam says coolly. 

Dean holds on when Sam tries to yank it out of his grasp. He even shifts to stand between Sam and the door. 

-Just hold on a minute, Dean says and he’s half-pleading, half-ordering Sam to just take second, hear him out.   
-Let me go, Sam says and Dean’s not holding on to Sam, he’s just got a grip on the duffel, but that’s obviously bad enough. 

Sam’s got that trapped animal look again and Dean knows where that leads, so he lets go and takes a half-step back. That puts Sam in motion immediately, trying to skirt around Dean and get to the door without touching Dean in any way, but Dean’s not letting him out that easy. 

-Just give me a minute, Sam, okay? Dean begs and this time he grabs hold of Sam’s hoodie, bunching a fist in the material at his side and tugging a little to pull Sam off course and bring him back around. 

Sam shuffles with the pressure, wrenches to get free and throws an elbow back, connecting solidly with Dean’s chest, but Dean hangs on grimly. 

-Settle down, Jesus. Give me a minute, Sam. Just give me goddamned minute.

Sam snarls at him. He actually snarls. But he goes stock still and glares at Dean for a long second before squaring his shoulders and nodding once. 

-You have one minute. Step away from me, Sam says curtly. 

Dean doesn’t really have a choice so he takes a step back and watches as Sam shifts on his feet a few times, clearly wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out the door as quickly as possible. 

-Okay, so that was a shitty thing to do, Dean starts and watches Sam’s mouth carve an even more vicious snarl into the air without making any noise. “But, Sam, I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I just… Look, I get that you have trust issues, or whatever, and I don’t blame you. I’ve tried to respect that. But I just heard from my old man and it looks like we’re going to be meeting up soon. I don’t have a problem with you wanting to keep your privacy, but my dad, he’s not going to just let it slide. You’re not talking, so I just… And it was a really shitty thing to do. I’m sorry.”

Sam looks at him steadily through the whole tirade, waits Dean’s out. Dean breathes and thinks that maybe he hasn’t lost Sam yet, after all. 

-You done? Sam asks.   
-Yeah. I guess.. I … 

Sam nods again and then makes a beeline for the door. Dean takes a few quick steps after him and he’s almost got a hold on him again when Sam gives him a glance over his shoulder that’s a little less furious and has something mingled in that looks almost like regret. 

-Thanks for the ride, Sam says. “Good luck with your dad.”

And then he’s out the door.  
By the time Dean has his boots on and his jacket and keys Sam is long gone. 

This time Dean doesn’t find Sam at a bus station, or on the road, or at the truck stop, or in the nearby diner. Sam must have gotten a ride and gotten the hell out of town before Dean even got into the car. Jesus, the kid’s fast. And gone. Sam is just gone. Dean bites his lips and tries not to think about how badly he screwed that up and what it must have looked like to Sam. He really didn’t mean anything bad by it. 

After a day or so Dean figures he’s just going to have to come to terms with the fact that Sam made his choice and that the kid will be all right on his own. He’s smart and he’s capable. He’s also seventeen and alone in a world where not all the predators are easily discouraged by a little pig sticker and big bad attitude. 

Strays come and go. They find someone to feed them and somewhere warm to sleep and most of the time they move through Dean’s life without him thinking too much about it afterwards. Not this time, though. This time he keeps thinking about Sam, about the long list of homes and places the kid had lived and been tossed out of. He thinks about what it must have cost Sam to keep his grade average up despite all that. He thinks about the kind of determination that would take and how Sam so obviously had been hurting for someone to just have his back, let him relax a little, get taken care of a little, and how much Dean wanted to be the one to be allowed to do that. 

It’s fucking with his head. 

Dad’s not at the first set of coordinates, some kind of water spirit. He is at the second, though, looking rough and determined as always. When he pulls Dean into a hug he smells the same, a little like road and sweat and soap and guns. It’s comforting in a way. It doesn’t mean that the cracks aren’t there as obvious as they have been for the last couple of years. 

It’s been getting progressively harder for the two of them to get along comfortably. It’s not that Dean minds taking orders, or listening to his elders. It’s not even about the things that dad has kept him in the dark about or deliberately let slip to other hunters and neglected to tell Dean. Dad always has his reasons, Dean’s learned that much. He’s accepted being used as bait and then shoved out of the way. Some of that is dad’s very misguided way of trying to keep Dean safe, which is blatantly ridiculous. It’s not about the fact that dad still thinks Dean’s going to walk away from the life when they finally get mom’s killer, a hunt that he perversely doesn’t want Dean to be part of now that he thinks he’s getting closer to the finishing line. 

Well, actually it is a little about all of those things. 

But mostly it’s the fact that dad is getting increasingly more obsessed the longer that particular hunt drags on, and Dean can’t see any point to it anymore. Twenty odd years of chasing the same demon has put the kind of bees in dad’s bonnet that are never going to stop buzzing and Dean’s got the alarming suspicion that dad is willing to trade his life to win the end game. Dean’s not okay with that. 

On some level dad still thinks of him as a kid, calls him Dean-O and buddy and talks down to him as if he’s still that snot nosed punk that tripped over his own feet and puked in the bushes the first time he did an exhumation. Dean figures it’s always a little like that with parents and their kids. On some level dad wants him to be that child still, a little blinkered and protected, while at the same time sending him on the kinds of hunts that seasoned grizzled hunters shy away from without backup. 

It makes working together strained, to say the least. 

They got through the standard greeting of “how have you been and what have you been doing” and it feels more like a debriefing to Dean than an actual conversation. It certainly doesn’t feel like a meeting between two equals. Dean figures dad’s still thinking of this as a straight up cadre of two with himself as the commanding officer and Dean has an unsettling moment where he realizes he might not be all that hot on acknowledging that command structure at the moment. 

Not for the job, it’s fine for the job. He’ll go where dad points and shoot when he has to, that’s really not the issue. 

This whole thing with Sam, though. It has made him think about family and what you have to give and what you have to offer and how much it actually matters that there’s someone who gives a crap about whether you live or die. And he’s a little pissed at himself that he threw away any chance he had at getting Sam to a better place because his dad is a little nuts. You have to be a little nuts to be a hunter, that’s just the way of it, but dad’s particular brand of crazy has always been isolationist. If it weren’t for Dean he would have burned a hell of a lot more bridges than he already has. Bobby put a shotgun on him last time the two of them butted heads and made sure to tell Dean that he’s always welcome before telling John not to darken his doorstep again. 

Dean has no idea what that fight was about, but then that’s dad for you. 

And that cost Dean Sam, somehow. He’s having real trouble with that even while John claps him on the shoulder telling him he did a good job with that water spirit, which makes Dean think that dad checked up on him, checked the quality of his work after he was done instead of showing up to lend a hand, which frankly, Dean could probably have used seeing how the only thing that stopped him from drowning was the fact that he carries a knife with iron and silver inlay in his boot. 

It grates. Dean’s not used to it feeling so much like sandpaper against his skin to be with his father on a hunt. He’s not used to John’s little habits annoying him to the point where all he really wants is to go find a bar and have a beer without the man. He’s not used to feeling like he’s keeping something really big from his dad. He’s not lying about Sam, he’s just not talking about the whole thing and that means that he has to think about what he says and how he says it, because dad asks about that hunt that led Dean to Sam and the whole strange mess after that and Dean doesn’t like it. He just plain doesn’t like that Sam managed to matter so much in such a short time that he can’t get the kid out of his head even while they go after the poltergeist that dad brought him in on.


	6. Good Samaritan

Dean’s knee-deep in monster guts when he finds himself wondering if Sam’s okay, what he’s doing, if he’s found safe harbor yet. It’s been over a month and he still can’t get the kid out of his head. It’s now officially gone from confusing to pissing him off. 

He calls Bobby later that week and asks for the kind of favor that isn’t hunt-related, isn’t urgent, is “when you can get around to it, thanks”. Bobby says “sure” and never asks why, which is one of the reasons Dean likes the old coot so much. 

Two days after that Dean walks into a bar and it’s like every single stupid random cliché. A stranger walks into a bar… Sam’s by the pool tables. He’s dressed in a navy blue hoodie with some college logo on it and his hair is in his eyes and he’s aiming a guileless charming expression at the guy he’s playing. A guy who, incidentally, takes a nice long look as Sam bends over to take his shot. 

Dean goes to the bar, orders himself a beer and ambles over to the tables. He stands in the shadows, slightly out of Sam’s line of sight and watches for a while. Sam looks okay. He’s still skinny as all hell, and kind of drawn, but that’s more something about the way he carries himself than anything to do with his current game. Sam’s stance says it’s been a while since he’s slept. When he’s focusing on the green felt of the table Dean can see how his eyes are measuring angles and trajectories, but he’s careful about letting it show. It’s a problem Dean’s familiar with, playing the game when the outcome matters as much as it obviously does here. 

Sam makes the shot, but it’s by the skin of his teeth. It banks a little harder to the left than Dean would have liked and there’s an unconscious shift in Sam’s shoulders like he’s willing it to clip the stripe instead of the solid. It does, but things aren’t going all that well for the kid at the moment and Dean wonders if he’s got more riding on this game than he can pay up if he loses. It wouldn’t surprise Dean if that was the case. Under the carefully constructed veneer of affability Sam reeks of desperation. 

Dean takes a couple of steps forward into the light and watches Sam spot him and for the faintest hint of a second there’s something like resignation in his eyes. Then he blanks it all back down to nothing as Dean starts heckling his opponent. 

The fucked up thing? This is the con Dean had been envisioning for them before Sam walked out on him. He never got a chance to lay it out for the kid, but as it turns out, he didn’t need to. Sam plays along, plays his part, as if they’ve been doing this for years. Dean makes his bets over the top for the first game, goading the guy Sam is playing into putting down more than he’s comfortable with. He lets his voice hit that grating layer of almost-insulting that ticks everyone off, but doesn’t give enough of a reason to take a swing at Dean. He’s got being annoying down to an art. Sam scuffs his sneakers on the floor and acts all awh-shucks about the whole thing, like winning wasn’t even something he thought possible.

Dean knows that before he walked in Sam was on the ropes. Now he’s up and moving with it, letting Dean goad another sucker into playing “the goddamned college kid, what the hell” as Dean acts drunker than he is and doesn’t take his eyes off the competition for too long. Sam act like he’s vaguely embarrassed by Dean and the whole ordeal and then makes another beautiful scraped-by victory seem like it’s more than he can handle. Dean sets up one more sucker for him and the side bets are almost better than the action on the table now. 

All this entertainment for the price of one lousy beer and Dean’s still waiting for Sam to snap at him. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t look at Dean like they’re anything other than complete strangers. He’s freakishly good at that slightly confused puppy look. And he begs out when the third game is done saying he’s had enough excitement for one night. 

Dean hangs around after Sam’s walked off, plays a couple of games himself and hopes like hell that Sam isn’t legging it down the road as far and as fast as he can while Dean takes all the attention off him with his own brand of drunken master playing.

When the cool night air hits him as he steps out the bar he feels it envelop him, soothing away the slightly hectic feeling that not being able to go after Sam left him with. He’s given up on understanding this weird compulsion by now. Some people get under your skin. Some people move in and take up permanent residence whether you want them to or not. Sam’s one of those. Dean’s had a few do that over the years, some he could save and some he couldn’t. One died in his arms. He’s never going to make sense of it so he just resolves to let it play out. 

-If I had even the vaguest fucking idea where I was going I’d accuse you of stalking me, Dean hears from the shadows to the side of the building. 

Dean turns his head slowly, grins at the kid. 

-Where’s your backpack? Dean asks, because he might as well get that out of the way.   
-In a locker at Open Heart, Sam says.   
-Open Heart… Are you serious?   
-As a myocardial infarction. 

Dean rolls his eyes. Sam steps out of the shadows, hands dug down deep in his pockets. He doesn’t even have a decent jacket and it’s fucking cold. 

-How’d things go with your dad? Sam asks. 

And yeah, Dean deserved that one. He wants to say “it was shit because I lost you over it” or “right now I don’t even like the man”, but that’s a little too much, so he shrugs. They stand there watching each other and that’s familiar. It’s also a hell of a lot less awkward than it should be until Sam makes a face and shuffles his feet. 

-I just wanted to say thanks for that in there and… Sam starts and Dean thinks “no, not this again”.   
-You hungry? He cuts in.   
Sam starts a little at the abruptness of the question, gives Dean another of those measured glances and shrugs some more.   
-Want to get a burger? 

This time Sam looks down the street as if he’s thinking about just taking off again, mission accomplished and nothing more for him here. Then he turns guarded eyes at Dean and gives Dean that twisted half smile. 

-Sure, why not? Sam says and Dean can’t think of a single reason why not either. 

They find a late night diner and get a booth, sitting in reasonably comfortable silence while they wait for their burgers. The kid really is looking better, all healed up and no new bruises that Dean can see. He’s actually the one worse for the wear this time, but it’s nothing that’s going to show. Sam’s still underfed and underdressed, though. The burgers are surprisingly good for this time of night. Figures since they’re somewhere between the bar district and downtown here. 

-So, Dean says once he’s done chewing. “How’ve you been?”

Sam is inhaling his fries, but he still manages to give Dean that same look that questions his intelligence. Dean was aiming for that, though, so he raises an eyebrow. He’s going to get a real smile out of this kid someday. He is. Even if he has to stick straws up his nose and imitate a walrus or something. 

-Good. Fine. Doing the Kerouac thing.   
-On the road? Free as a bird?   
-That, yes, but more like … a penniless bum.   
-Kid, I offered you a ride. 

Sam keeps eye contact and then he drops his burger back on the plate and wipes his fingers on a napkin before trying to respond. 

-Can we not? Is that okay? Sam asks and his eyes are open, honest and more than a little tired.   
-Sure. But… I’m guessing Open Heart’s got the usual rules and you’re way past curfew.   
-I have my stuff there in a locker. They’ll hold it for me ‘til tomorrow.   
-You still need a bed for the night. 

Sam sighs and puts his elbows on the table.

-I don’t get you. Why does it matter so much?   
-Shit, I don’t know, Dean tells him and he’s a little exasperated himself.

He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. Why this kid matters so much is a fucking mystery to him too, especially since he fights it so hard. Maybe that is actually a part of why the kid gets to him the way he does. Sam’s so fucking proud and so distrustful and it reminds him of how he was at that age, sure, but it’s more than that. 

-Look, Dean starts. “I think a part of it is that things ended on a kind of shitty note. I’d like to think I’m a better person than that, you know? So… I’m not going to push, but, it’s fucking cold out there and I have a double. Nothing fancy. You can come back with me, crash until the shelter opens.” 

Sam takes a minute, eats a few more fries, considers Dean. Considers his options, too, most likely. He looks out the window and sighs. Dean thinks it’s crazy. The whole thing is just crazy. He’s sort of hoping this will be the last of it. This will be enough that he can get the kid off his mind and be done with this ridiculous thing that’s taking up way too much of his thoughts. He’s got a draw, this kid, he’s got that quality to him that means Dean wants to get to know him, would want to keep knowing him, have him as a friend, because, Christ knows, they could both use one. But if all it ever comes to is a couple of random meetings colored by violence and mistrust, that’s just going to have to be the end of it. 

-Your good deed of the week? Sam asks and there’s a little humor there.   
-We can call it that. I need some Good Samaritan credits.   
-You know the whole point of the parable of the good Samaritan was that the Jews and the Samaritans were actually enemies at the time, right? 

Dean just looks at Sam. 

-Never mind, Sam says. “I’ll take you up on your generous offer of a bed for the night. I’m not going to be paying for that by sucking your cock, just so we’re clear.” 

Dean can’t help but grin at him. 

-I wouldn’t presume, he tells the kid. “And I told you already that’s not what this is about.”   
-Yeah, you told me. 

Sam sounds like he doesn’t believe that all the way, but Dean doesn’t know how to contradict that more heartily because of this stupid fascination of his. So they finish their burgers and then Dean takes Sam back to the motel. Dean got upgraded to a double because the shower in his first room backed up and spat ice cold water at him. It’s all coincidence and happenstance and quirks of fate and if Dean was a different kind of man he would say it’s all a little to serendipitous to be believed, but he’s seen weirder shit, so he just rolls with it. It’s what he does. 

Sam doesn’t even have a toothbrush. Dean has a spare. 

They get ready to turn in and Dean finds some inane comedy to unwind to. 

-Sam? He says when he can tell the kid is about to drop off. 

Sam hums low in response. 

-Don’t just take off in the morning, okay? 

The silence is long enough that Dean thinks he’s not going to get an answer to that. 

-‘kay, Sam says. 

It’s almost noon when Dean wakes up and Sam is still there, dozing on the other bed, half asleep and half watching cartoons with the sound turned all the way down. Dean heard him in the early morning hours, nightmare noises, a distressed whimper that Dean would have liked to soothe him out of, or wake him up from, but Sam had managed to do that himself, tensing and then going completely still while he oriented himself. Dean hadn’t said anything, but he figures Sam knew he was awake. 

It wasn’t the first time. Dean had heard Sam have nightmares before in the short time they traveled together and he figures if Sam wanted to talk about it, he would have. Then again, who is he kidding? Sam didn’t even want to give up his last name. 

-Morning, Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

Sam looks over at him. There’s an expression on his face that Dean hasn’t seen before. It’s not the usual guarded blank façade. It’s not open and welcoming, either, but it’s more of a friendly nothing, a nothing you get from someone who knows you early in the morning before you even want to be awake. 

-Breakfast? Dean asks.   
-You buying?   
-Sure. 

Dean grabs a shower and then they head out to find some coffee. It’s more like lunch by the time they find somewhere to eat, but feeding Sam means that’s a good thing. Sam’s on his third cup of coffee by the time Dean realizes that he doesn’t want to let him go, but he’s going to have to, because he can’t have that conversation again. It’s too much. This whole thing is intense in a strange way that he can’t get any kind of handle on and that means he needs to take his own advice and step away from it before it starts getting too complicated. 

-I’m going to give you my number, okay? Dean says. “In case you need to get in touch with me, or… just. You know.” 

Sam’s been looking out the window, probably thinking about exit strategies. Or the true meaning of the parable of the good Samaritan. Or he could be just zoning out. Dean can’t tell. 

-I don’t have a phone, Sam says. 

Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t have fucking anything except a backpack full of records and a duffel full of dirty clothes. Christ. Dean doesn’t have much either, but he’s still miles ahead of this kid. That kind of pisses Dean off. 

-You know what? I have a couple of burn phones. I’ll give you one of those.   
-Jesus, Sam says and drags a hand through his hair. “Okay.”   
-I had this thought the other day.   
-Congratulations?   
-Smartass. No, I had this thought that it’s good to know there’s someone out there who gives a shit whether you live or die. I don’t know why, kid, but … I figure it might as well be me, right?   
-You certainly work hard enough for it, Sam says and his gaze is piercing this time, trying to look straight through Dean all the way down to the very bottom of his motives. “What’ll you do if I call?” 

Dean smiles, and it’s a little twisted, a little too sharp. 

-I’ll pick up. That work for you? He asks.   
-Yeah. Yeah, okay. But, Dean, I’m not a kid.   
-Yes, you are. 

Which is the whole point.


	7. Swanville

He doesn’t try to hold on this time. This time Dean drops Sam off at a low, squat brick building that looks more like an abandoned clothes store than a shelter and drives off. He makes sure Sam has money and a prepaid with his number programmed into it and food in his belly and that’s all Dean can do. That’s all Sam will allow him to do. Sam even says “thanks” in a soft voice before walking away and that’s going to have to be enough. At least for right now.

See, here’s the thing – Dean kind of already knows that Sam is going to call him. He’s going to call because he’s going to get into trouble. He’s going to get into trouble because he’s seventeen and he’s alone and he’s on the road and that’s how you get into trouble. Dean can only hope that it won’t be the kind of trouble that he can’t fix.

Meanwhile, he’s got coordinates and a hunt to get to.

He lays an angry ghost to rest. Then there’s a thing with supposedly mythological beasts that turns out to be just feral dogs. And then there’s a hunt dad brings him in on just to oust him out of just as quickly when it turns out the monster likes sucking all the juices out of young men and leaving them shriveled up like those dried pumpkins that always show up as decorations around Halloween.

The annoyance that leaves him with makes him grateful when dad has to take off without more than a cursory pat on the back and a promise to be in touch later.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t love his father. He does. It’s just that they don’t get along. It didn’t use to be that way, but Dean had kind of a sharp awakening when he was twelve and figured out that his dad wasn’t exactly the hero Dean had made him out to be. That had been the first time dad used him as bait in a big way, which wasn’t even the problem. That in itself he could have coped with. It was the way dad went about it that finally made all the little fissures start to widen.

If dad had sat him down and explained about the kids who were dying and what he thought had caused it and how Dean could help, Dean would have gladly volunteered to do the job. Dad raised him to be a hunter, to do whatever it takes to get the job done. At twelve Dean had thought his father was Batman and John Wayne all rolled into one. He had listened with his ears perked and taken John’s word as gospel and done everything the way his dad did it, right down to drinking his coffee black. He had wanted to dress like his dad and talk like his dad and walk like his dad. He had wanted nothing more than to be just like his father.

So when dad put him in a motel room and told him to salt the door and the windows and not go outside and then disappeared for four days, Dean had done exactly what his father told him to do.

What John hadn’t told him damn near got him killed.

The thing that took all the shine off John wasn’t even that, but the fact that dad had looked him straight in the eyes and lied without any compunction, or without ever even thinking that there was something inherently wrong about lying to your only kid to use him as bait when he damn well knew that Dean would be caught with his pants down when the thing came for him, because the shotgun he had was loaded with rock salt and the only thing that can kill a shtriga is consecrated iron.

All this was explained to Dean afterwards, when his limbs felt like overcooked noodles and he was weak and limp and gasping on a bed. It probably wasn’t the worst lie John had ever told, but it was the one that killed Dean’s faith in him and after that things were never the same. Dean got angry. And when Dean gets angry he gets quiet and cold. John simmers on a low boil until he explodes, but Dean just stopped talking to his father. He answered direct questions and followed orders, but he never really talked with his dad like he used to before.

Dean figured if dad wanted that back he would have to earn it. John had never really worked that out, funnily enough. It seemed like the shift annoyed John, angered him even, but he never really understood that what he had done had changed Dean’s perception of him to the point where their relationship was never going to be the same. He had treated Dean like a little kid for about a year after that until Dean sat him down one day and explained that if he was old enough to get killed he was old enough for dad to stop talking to him like he was five. John was hurt at that. He had looked gut punched and sad and Dean hadn’t really cared.

There’s a reason why child soldiers are so fucked in the head. Dean believed that what they were doing was right. He believed in the hunt, in saving people. He knew what was out there and some days that made him feel like the rest of the world was walking around in a daze and he was the only one who knew the truth. Some days he hated that. Some days it made him feel like he was one of the chosen few. It was confusing and difficult to deal with. He had a hard time relating to other kids because of it. He didn’t give a shit about a lot of the things that kids his own age thought were so important, which gave him the kind of reckless courage that got him into fights and disciplinary measures from teachers.

In some ways Dean cut dad out of the decision making when it came to how he lived his life. He knew how to stay out of trouble, he knew how to keep a low profile, but he didn’t always care. Dean decided to learn how to rock climb and found a couple of old hippies who were sleeping under a canvass sheet in what was obviously their base camp and made them teach him. He hung out with a guy who was a falconer and learned a little about that. He hooked up with a beach bum who taught him how to surf a little and dive even better. He learned about fringe cultures the way some learn a new language, by immersion. He did all this without his father’s knowledge or permission and when John questioned him on where he’d picked up a new skill he would just shrug. There were weeks unaccounted for when John was hunting when Dean hardly spent any time in the motels and rented rooms where John left him.

It all came to a head when he was about fifteen and started talking about dropping out of school for good. Dad really hadn’t liked that. For some reason he thought it mattered at all if Dean got a diploma and Dean had done the unthinkable and laughed in John’s face. It’s not unfair to say that Dean has a little trouble with authority. They’d almost come to blows that time until Dean decided to compromise until he at least had a legal driver’s license and a car of his own.

So Dean understands what it means to be seventeen and on the road and alone in the world in a very real sense. He had his dad, sure, but John was never really all the way there after mom’s death and Dean understood that mostly in an abstract way, because he didn’t remember her as anything other than an impression of someone warm and soft, and even that he can’t be sure about. He thinks that’s mostly something he wants to have had at some point. There are a lot of angry kids from broken homes who’ve had it worse, Dean sure. But the things that were broken for him were broken in such spectacular ways that it’s maybe no wonder he’s more than a little cracked himself. There were times when Dean didn’t even think he’d make it to twenty and he was kind of okay with that.

All that brings him back to Sam. Because it’s obvious that Sam’s spectacularly fucked up too, that he’s seen the vicious end of some bad beatings and that means he’s seen the darker side of humanity. He’s also gotten a few glimpses into Dean’s world and handled that well, all things considered. Dean thinks they could be friends. Dean thinks they could be really good friends and he could help the kid out in all the ways that no one helped him when he was that age and made bad choices just because there wasn’t any other kind to make. He doesn’t want that for Sam.

Dropping out of school, incidentally, doesn’t mean Dean’s stupid. He’s been called everything from a troublemaker to a kinetic thinker to a bad kid, but he knows that’s got nothing to do with intelligence. Put a problem in front of him and he’ll figure out a way to solve it. If all other solutions fail, there’s always blunt violence. He’s good at that too.

Dean’s at a gas station buying snacks when his phone trills in his pocket. He answers absentmindedly while accepting his change from the attendant and has to snap all his attention to the conversation when an official sounding voice at the other end asks if he’s Mr Winchester.

-Speaking, Dean says calmly and deliberately doesn’t give anything else away.   
-We’re holding your brother for vagrancy.

Dean’s mind goes blank.

-My brother? He asks.   
-Samuel Winchester.

Well, okay, then, Dean thinks and starts asking questions. Turns out the very nice County Sherriff’s deputy isn’t interested in tossing young Samuel in lockup for bumming around, it’s just that he can’t be released unless there’s someone to take him, because vagrancy laws state that… and Dean listens and hums and says very little. Sam has obviously charmed the pants off the local law enforcement of some town called Swanville. The deputy’s still talking by the time Dean is back behind the wheel. Dean says thank you and says he’ll be there by lunch time and yes, he’ll pay any fine and yes, please hold Samuel until he shows up.

Fucking kid.

Dean hadn’t thought it would be quite this kind of trouble he would be helping Sam out of, but there you go. The only way they’ll be willing to release Sam would be to a responsible guardian, since he’s still technically a minor. And Dean wonders how Sam let himself get tangled up like that. Then he breaks into his snack cakes and figures he’ll just ask the kid when he sees him. Mid-coast Maine seems to be where he’s heading. Jesus. Actually, he’s heading to Belfast, because that’s where they’re keeping the kid.

The building is red brick with a nice big emblem emblazoning the front and Dean parks his car in the lone visitor’s spot. He opens the door and finds a pretty cramped reception area with a steely eyed grey-haired harridan behind the counter. He stays pleasant through that and through the conversation he is forced to have with the deputy who comes ambling out from his office after Dean’s been waiting for almost half an hour. He’s not taking the bait on getting riled about any of this. He wants to say “where’s the kid?” and doesn’t.

He gets lectured on the dangers of hitchhiking. He gets lectured on not letting his little brother go off like that alone and the statistics of runaways and bad things that can happen to nice kids like his little brother and about how if it wasn’t for the fact that Sam had stepped in to break up a brawl at a local student’s party they never would have had to… and so on.

-Thank you, Dean says. “I’ll be sure to keep the kid on a short leash for a while.”

The deputy gives him a strange look at that and Dean realizes that he probably sounded harsher than he should have.

-I’m sorry, sheriff, Dean says, pretending not to know that he’s only talking to a deputy, making sure to sound tired and a little contrite. “It’s just… Kid does stupid stuff sometimes. He knows better.”  
-You’re not that much older, son, the deputy says with a smile.

Dean wonders idly if Sam’s found it this hard to not talk back to the frankly annoying bastard standing in front of him. Dean smiles a tight smile.

-Can I get my kid now? he asks.

That makes both the deputy and the woman behind the desk look at him like he spontaneously grew a second head. He ignores it. He ignores the hell out of the disapproving look he gets when he pays the fine with crumpled twenties and then waits for Sam to be brought out.

Sam looks appropriately sheepish when he comes shuffling out after the deputy. He’s rumpled and filthy and he’s got a shiner, ubiquitous backpack nowhere to be seen. Dean walks right up to him and smacks him over the back of the head.

-Ow, Sam says indignantly and raises a hand to rub at the spot.   
-Idiot, Dean tells him.

The deputy tries really hard not to look amused. Dean moves forward taking Sam’s chin in and underhand grip so he can tilt Sam’s head to the side to get a good look at his blackened eye.

-What did I tell you? Dean says and puts every ounce of big-brother annoyance he can muster into his tone. “Call me _before_ you get into trouble.”   
-Sorry, Dean, Jesus.   
-Language, Dean snaps.

He can play this part just as well as he plays any other part, as long as Sam holds up his end. Sam grumbles a little, shuffles his feet and mutters “sorry” again.

-You and your stupid Kerouac thing, Dean says. “Thank you, Sir”, Dean says directing the last at the deputy and holding out his hand for the man to shake.

Then he gets them the hell out of there as fast as he can with a solid grip around Sam’s bicep to lead him out of the building and towards the car. Sam waits until they’re a little way off before asking Dean to pull over.

-I don’t think I’m letting you out, Dean says calmly, if a little distractedly.

Sam keeps his eyes on the road.

-I have to get my stuff, Sam says.   
-Okay, where’s your stuff this time?   
-Girl called Melissa has it. Her house is up that way, Sam says nodding up ahead.   
-I’ll get you there and then I’ll get you out of here. That work for you?   
-I’m not going to argue with you right now, Sam tells him.

Dean glances over at Sam. Same old, same old. Sam’s taken a beating. Sam probably hasn’t slept for at least the last twenty-four. Sam looks like he could use a meal. Sam needs a new pair of sneakers and an icepack for his face. And a decent jacket.

-You’re getting to be a real pain in my ass, Dean says.   
-Thought you were the one supposed to care whether I live or die, Sam says and he’s got that soft, drifting carefully neutral tone again.   
-The one thing does not exclude the other, Dean tells him.

It’s quiet in the car after that.

Melissa turns out to be about Dean’s age. She’s pretty and she has wild crazy colored red hair. She’s all over Sam the minute she opens the door.

-Oh, god, Johnny, I’m so glad you’re okay, she screams and throws herself at Sam, hugging him and talking a mile a minute about the asshole at the party who had started the brawl that Sam obviously took all the hits for.

Dean has to fight an impulse to pull Sam back and away from her and that’s something he wasn’t quite expecting. She’s hot in that slightly disheveled way that means ‘student’ and ‘money’ and ‘careless’. Or maybe that should be carefree. Sam’s body language goes through one of those changes that Dean is starting to be a little too fascinated by. He’s all lanky grace and easy going charm and thrown back shoulders all of a sudden.

-Come in, come in, Melissa says and pulls Sam through the door giving Dean a quick smile.

Sam glances back over his shoulder and gives Dean an unreadable look. He nods at Dean and Dean shrugs and walks through the door, shutting it gently behind them.

 


	8. Lessons

-So, who are you? Melissa asks giving Dean a slow, interested once-over when they’ve been ushered through to her kitchen. 

But Sam talks right over him when he tries to make an introduction. 

-I really need to get my things, please, Sam tells her.   
-Oh, yeah, sure, Melissa says and goes to a little cupboard in a corner and hauls out Sam’s duffel and backpack. “I’m so sorry it went down like that”. 

Sam nods and then turns right around and heads back towards the door. Dean’s a little taken aback and obviously so is Melissa, but Dean figures there’s more to this than he knows so he just tries to keep up with Sam as he strides briskly towards the exit. Melissa is bringing up the rear trying to get Sam’s attention, but Sam’s having none of it. 

It isn’t until they’re out the front door again that Sam stops at her urgent calling and turns around. 

-Johnny, really, you don’t have to go, Melissa says and tries to put a hand on Sam’s elbow, but he chooses that exact moment to hike his backpack a little higher on his shoulder, effectively dislodging her touch.   
-I got hauled in by the sheriff, Sam says and his tone is flat and a little dangerous. “’Cause of you and your friends. No one spoke up for me and no one came to bail me out, and you know what? No pussy is worth that.”

Sam’s voice is so cold and so scathing at the end that Dean’s getting frostbite just from standing next to him. Melissa flinches like she just got slapped. 

-Johnny, please, she says, but Sam has already turned his back and started walking towards Dean’s car. 

Dean looks Melissa up and down and sees hurt and guilt and something else, something a little desperate in her eyes. She clearly wants to run after Sam, but there’s no doubt that Sam’s not having any of that. Dean looks at the forbidding line of Sam’s back, then down at Melissa’s stricken expression and figures Sam is the one with the answers here, so he turns around and heads after the kid. 

-Tell him I’m sorry, Melissa calls after Dean. 

Dean would if the thought that would make a lick of difference. 

They drive for about an hour until Dean thinks they need to sit down and try to figure out what’s next. He finds them a diner that has junky flower boxes out front and Sam walks in with him without protest. The waitress clucks over Sam’s eye, saying “oh, honey” and Sam gives her that guileless look and tells her he got it catching a stray elbow playing basketball. Dean looks at Sam’s earnest, slightly rueful expression and thinks he would have believed it too if he didn’t know better. 

-So, Dean says when they have their drinks in front of them and are waiting for the food. “How’ve you been?”

Sam’s expression shifts into something amused. 

-We have a lot of these conversations, don’t we? Sam asks. 

Dean shrugs and takes a sip of his soda. It’s Sam’s turn to start it up this time. He’s not expecting a lot. Sam’s not exactly an open book. 

-Melissa is… Sam begins and then seems to think better of it. “Thank you for bailing me out. I didn’t say that, did I? Thank you.”   
-‘S okay. I told you I would.   
-No, you told me you’d pick up if I called. This was above and beyond, don’t think I don’t know that. I owe you.   
-No, you don’t, Dean says quickly, because he knows that won’t lead to anything good. 

Sam studies him for a long moment and then he drags a hand through his hair, puts an elbow on the table and drops his head down so Dean’s looking at the slightly greasy tangle of his hair instead of his face. 

-I’m so fucking tired, man, Sam says in what Dean can only think is the first unguarded moment he’s had since Dean came to pick him up. 

Sam seems to catch himself and glances up at Dean. 

-It’s okay, kid. I get it.   
-You know, I’m kind of starting to think you do. I’ve been jacked around so much these last couple of weeks I can’t even… I’m just so tired. 

Dean thinks about that for a while. If things were different, if he was a different man, more like his father, he would be giving the kid the third degree right about now. But, the thing is, he doesn’t really give a shit. He doesn’t care if Sam got into a brawl. He doesn’t care which name Sam goes by. He isn’t interested in who that Melissa girl is or what she did, except for obviously screwing Sam over somehow. If she was his girlfriend she sure as hell isn’t anymore, and if she was just a hookup then Sam was clearly less invested than she was. 

Dean doesn’t even really care how Sam ended up in Maine. It’s idle curiosity that makes him want to ask all the questions that Sam is obviously expecting by now judging from the way he’s looking at Dean. So Dean takes a deep breath and takes stock of what he knows and what he’s seen and where they’ve been and where he’s going and makes the kind of gut instinct decision that his dad would hate. 

-Let’s keep it true to tradition then, Dean says and locks his gaze with Sam’s. “Here’s what’s on offer: we fill our bellies, I drive us out of state, find a motel and let you sleep for about a day, ‘cause, kid, you look like you need it. Then we figure out where to go from there.” 

Sam looks relieved, like he never thought it could be that easy. He gives Dean the lopsided almost-smile that Dean’s starting to recognize as Sam relaxing a little. 

-No funny business? He asks.   
-No funny business, Dean confirms, but it’s routine, just Sam being a smartass.

The waitress comes over at that moment and Dean thanks her, thinks he’s going to give her a glorious tip when he sees how well she’s loaded Sam’s plate. She gives him a little conspiratorial wink when Sam’s head is bent over his food and Dean smiles back at her gratefully. 

Sam crashes hard as soon as Dean’s got them in a room. He pulls of his sneakers and crawls onto the bed furthest from the door and mashes his face into the pillow and then he’s just out like a light. Dean looks over at him, shakes his head and doesn’t know what to do other than pull the comforter off his own bed and spread it over the kid. Sam’s still in a somewhat defensive posture, half curled and guarding, but there’s something to the fact that he trusts Dean at least this far now. Or, maybe he’s just too wiped to stay alert. 

Dean brings in some of the armory and sets about cleaning guns. After a couple of hours Sam wakes up enough to go take a piss and brush his teeth and then he goes right back to bed. Dean’s got the distinct impression Sam’s doesn’t really wake up through any of that. 

It’s different. Just having someone else with him in the room, breathing there, making small shuffling noises. Someone alive and real. It’s like rain against the windows and the crackle of a fire, that small snuffled inhale Sam makes. It’s the strangest fucking thing, but Dean has missed that, missed having company, even if he wouldn’t go so far as to say that means he’s missed having his dad around. 

John beat him into the ground once when they were sparring. Every time he put Dean on his ass he yelled at him to “get up, come at me again” until Dean was black and blue. It wasn’t until he gave Dean a crack right across the nose and Dean dropped bleeding that Dean started wondering if the lesson for the day was ‘how to take a beating’. Dean remembers feeling resentful, angry and scared. Dad just kept putting him down, even bloodied him and then expected him to get right back up and do it again. Dean was fourteen at the time. 

He remembers dad telling him that he had to be able to fight through the pain, to never quit, to keep getting right back up again no matter how tired he was or how much he hurt. He remembers dad saying “I want it to be an instinct, son” and he remembers wondering if dad had had a fully grown adult male trained as a solder kicking the shit out of him when he was fourteen. That actually would explain a lot. 

He did learn something, though. He learned a lot of somethings from dad, even if they weren’t always what John set out to teach. Dean learned that he wasn’t afraid of taking a hit. He learned that when you have a nosebleed you lean forward and try not to swallow too much blood. He learned that you never quit once you start, not even when you really fucking want to. He also learned that once you break someone’s trust you have to be willing to work for the right to earn it back. That’s what he’s doing with Sam. 

The idea that Dean started out with was to make sure that Sam understood that Dean’s not going to be one of those bastards that have broken his trust and just left him hanging. If Sam calls, he’s going to do his damndest to pick up. If Sam needs a place to crash where he can feel safe enough to sleep, then Dean’s going to give him that. No funny business. 

Sam is interesting. That’s the thing. Dean meets a lot of people and he’s been all over, but he’s never really met anyone like Sam. He’s determined not to fuck up with the kid again. It’s not as abstract as wanting to keep him, this time. It’s more that he’s willing to make sure that Sam gets to where he needs to be. Not that any of that is clear at the moment, but he’s willing to bet Sam has a plan. Sam doesn’t seem like the kind of kid who wouldn’t have a plan, even if his recent ones have all obviously all blown up in his face. 

Just because Dean took him in, picked up when he called, doesn’t mean that Dean has any kind of right to anything. Dean’s actually thought about the whole Samaritan parable. The point of that is to do good irrespective of where the other guy is coming from. The whole point of picking up strays is to leave them in better shape than they were when you found them. Dean knows dad doesn’t appreciate that. If the family motto is “saving people, hunting things”, then Dean’s always been more focused on the former and John’s always been hell-bent on the latter. As a team they worked pretty well because of that, until they were at cross purposes and then Dean was usually made to bend. At least when he was younger. 

That’s why this thing with Sam is something that he’s not all that eager to talk to dad about. Dad’s not going to get it. He’s going to see a hunt that was done and over getting dragged out unnecessarily and complicated by a civilian who is just a hindrance after the burning is done. All Dean can think as he puts his guns and cleaning equipment away is that he’s not done with Sam yet.

Dean’s naturally curious as well as curious for occupational reasons and he’s got questions, lots of them. But none of them are as pressing as all that, none of them make the slightest bit of difference when it comes to how he feels about the kid. Dean knows it’s more than a little strange. It’s not strange in the way that means he needs to break out the holy water though, he’s pretty sure. He’s still thinking about that when he falls asleep himself. 

In the morning Sam pushes himself up from the bed with the kind of slow deliberate movements that speak of bruises, locked up muscles and the kind of stupor that comes from crashing so hard you don’t even stir during the night. Dean watches him the whole way, trying to work out how much pain the kid is in and what his baggy jeans and Dean’s old t-shirt are hiding. 

-I’m fine, Sam grumbles as he heads for the bathroom.   
-Sure you are, Dean says. “That’s, what, your third beat down since I met you?”   
-More than that, actually, Sam says, like it’s nothing and closes the bathroom door. 

Dean gets out of bed and keeps a tight rein on the anger that bubbles up inside him every time Sam gives him that kind of flippant attitude over this shit. It’s not his fault, and it’s not Dean’s responsibility.

They go for breakfast and Dean watches as Sam inhales two cups of coffee before even starting on actual food. Sam really likes his coffee. Dean hadn’t noticed that before, but now that he thinks about it, Sam never orders soda if there’s coffee in striking distance. 

-Is there anywhere you need to be right now? Sam asks.   
-Not really. Not at the moment, Dean tells him and watches Sam put away more coffee with his pancakes, Jesus. 

If he was having that much of the tar that this place serves up he’d be jittering out of his skin all day. Sam doesn’t even seem more awake for it, just keeps calmly working his way through a short stack and some bacon. 

-Not meeting up with your dad? Sam asks and it’s faux casual, there’s a tone there, something a little bitter and dark around the edges.   
-Haven’t heard from him since… it’s been a while, Dean answers and there’s a tone there too, Dean thinking of desiccated bodies. 

Sam makes a noncommittal noise and polishes off his food. Seems every time they meet Dean’s either feeding the kid or trying to get him to bed or hunting down his stuff. That really needs to change. 

-What are your plans? Dean asks when the food is all gone. 

Sam looks at him for a long moment. He seems calm and contemplative. He’s still giving Dean the kind of deadpan expression that hides more than it will ever tell. Dean knows Sam is trying to figure out what to say and it seems silence works better when they get to this point in their interactions, so he resists the urge to try and goad Sam into answering. 

-I don’t really know where to go from here, but I’ll work something out. 

Dean wants to jump all over that and offer Sam the same deal as before, just to come with him, - just get in the damned car, Sam -, but he’s not sure Sam would go for that even now. 

-Do you have a friend you can go to? Anyone? Dean asks, but he knows the answer to that already.   
-Melissa was kind of my last ditch. That didn’t go so well, Sam says with a wry grimace.   
-I noticed, he says because Sam doesn’t have an exclusive right on being a smartass. 

Dean thinks about Melissa, her sweet face all crumpled somehow when Sam turned hard eyes on her. He thinks about the money he straightened out on the counter at the sheriff’s office. Sam, bought and paid for. 

-I figured you have some kind of plan, Dean says and tries to stay casual.   
-Yeah, yeah, I did. It … I just hit a run of really bad luck, Sam says and he’s chewing his words again, Dean can see it. “I have no fucking clue what to do now.” 

For a second, in the overly bright light of the diner, Sam actually looks his age. Just a kid, lost and a little scared. Could even be genuine, that look on his face.

-So, let me help you, Dean says not really knowing how he can do that, if he even can. 

Sam watches him like he’s been watching since they first met. 

-Yeah, he says finally. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”


	9. Getting to know you

Dean decides that the best thing to do is just keep moving until they know each other a bit better. It’s obvious that things have been rough for the kid and the way he’s sown up tighter than a nun is telling. The desperation that he works so hard to hide is there in the tense lines of his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists even when they’re just sitting in the car. Sam has a lot of little tells that show stress and tension, but not a damned thing that shows what it’s about. 

Dean figures that part comes later. He wants to level them out a little before they really get into it. Into what he can’t really say. Into where he’s going to have to drop the kid next, or where he can keep him in the shotgun seat, or where he can just… yeah, keep him. That idea is getting really stubborn and just won’t die. Dean knows he shouldn’t be thinking that way, but Sam settles in there with a book on his lap, or a road map and Dean thinks it suits him, fly away hair getting ruffled by the breeze from the rolled down window and a cup of coffee in his hand, because Dean picks up pretty fast that that’s a good way to keep the kid happy. 

It’s not a vacation, though. The kid isn’t easy. He’s prickly and defensive and wrapped up tight. Sam has layers of resistance and walls about ten miles high and fading bruises and a heavy sarcasm that comes across as either caustic or understatedly funny in a way that Dean really fucking likes. He’s not a burn out, or a fuck-up, this kid. He’s smart and cautious and wildly intelligent in a way that almost hurts to watch. He’s also good at the kind of pretense that makes him an excellent con artist. Dean is fascinated. And a little enamored with the whole package. Realistically, though, in the part of Dean’s mind that isn’t just moving like a shark to not drown, he knows he can’t have this kid. 

Dean caught the flu when he was nine. Dad had dropped him at Bobby’s and then hadn’t been back for a couple of months. Dean likes the salvage yard. He likes Bobby’s house with it’s ridiculous amount of books and artifacts and sundry. That summer, though... That summer he hated it with a vengeance. It wasn’t Bobby’s fault, but dad had left him behind because he was too weak to hunt and it ate at him until he wanted nothing more than to get a crowbar and beat the shit out of something. 

Years later Bobby tried to explain to him that it hadn’t been like that, it had been smarter for Dean to stay in one place while he healed and got better. While he was there he picked up more about lore and weapons and shooting and cars, so it wasn’t a total waste. Bobby even tried to make him take it easy, be a kid, which was a joke by then. They did things backwards, Bobby and dad. When it came to hunting and killing and exorcisms they were an unstoppable, well-oiled machine, but when it came to Dean they were fucking useless. 

Dean got sick and was left behind. That’s what he learned that summer: the weak get left by the wayside. 

Sam sleeps more now. He’s still healing, still working on those cuts and bruises. He’s eating better too, still skinny, but it’s going to take more than a couple of hearty meals to put some meat on him, some muscle. His body wants to be lanky, lean, even. He’s got that runner’s physique that works for agility and endurance. He’s got fast reflexes and a good eye. Dean’s working on letting him heal and he’s not going to leave him behind. Not unless Sam asks him too and even then there will be a discussion.

It’s a little too easy to forget that Sam isn’t like most of the other strays Dean’s patched up over the years. Now that he’s riding shotgun Dean’s finding out new things about him pretty much every day. He’s not big on talking about himself, but that’s okay, Dean’s not really either. He’s not led the kind of life that rewards behavior like that, so Dean’s good at bullshitting and talking, but he doesn’t really say much about himself. Sam’s like that too, easy and affable when they’re talking out theories about the stuff that’s out there, or when Dean’s telling stories about hunts, but that never really gets personal. It’s Dean guesses it’s what two guys who spend most of their day in a car get like. Not that he has much of a frame of reference. 

Sam still throws him for a loop pretty much every day too. He’s distrustful. He’s really protective of his personal space. He’s smart, yeah, but he can actively choose to not show that. He’s wily. Dean figures that’s understandable. Sam comes out of the bathroom one night in nothing but a towel and Dean knows the kid is watching for his reaction. Dean very carefully doesn’t give him anything other than an evaluating kind of glance to see how his injuries are coming along. He makes damned sure to keep it clinical. It doesn’t read like a come on from Sam, it reads like a test. Dean does not want to fail. 

Sam flinches when they’re in a diner and Dean makes a playful grab for one of Sam’s pieces of bacon. Sam doesn’t eat hunched over with an elbow protecting his food, or anything, but he’s cautious sometimes when they’re having a meal together in a way that Dean can’t really get a handle on. Sam’s hungry all the time, but when Dean does that, just a mindless tease, really, Sam’s reaction is weird. The closest thing Dean can think to compare it with is watching a lower status dog give way to an alpha. He goes still and kind of blankly accepting. It’s not an expression Dean ever wants to see on Sam’s face again. He buys a lot more road snacks after that. Sam quietly offers “I like apples” so he buys the kid apples. 

It’s a cautious deliberate dance and Dean keeps wondering why he’s willing to go along with it. He’s not usually this patient. He’s usually brasher, too, but Sam doesn’t invite that kind of thing. Dean still remembers the feel of the kid’s knuckles pressing in to the meat of his upper thigh with a knife handle gripped tightly beneath. Sam took a swing at a monster twice his size. Sam can be as cold as an artic winter, just blankly shutting down and walking away. There’s potential there, Sam being able to do violence and be swiftly remorseless about it. 

Dean’s seen it before, that kind of reaction. He knows it from school, kids who were raised in abusive environments, or in foster care, who don’t have the kind of off switch that most people are raised with that mean you stop hitting when your opponent is down. Dean’s willing to bet Sam doesn’t necessarily stop hitting until the other guy stops moving. It’s not excessive so much as badly calibrated, that impulse. And Sam is still just seventeen, which means he hasn’t figured it all out yet, no matter how smart he is. Dean’s careful with him the same way you are with a dog that’s been beaten. It turns out that’s a smart move on his part. 

They play a couple of rounds of pool one night, not really hustling, just dicking around, trying to keep themselves entertained, because there are no takers in the bar they’re in anyway. Dean’s in a pretty good mood and the kid seems fairly relaxed. They are honing their game, though, and for Dean that’s enough for tonight. He plays it up a little, flirting in a low key, barely there way, showing off a little, because that’s what he does, what he’s always done, even when he played like this with dad. You never know when a sucker is going to walk up to the table. 

So Dean lets his smiles show a little more teeth and holds himself looser, orbits Sam’s space, leans in a sharper angle over the table when it’s his turn, stuff like that. And Sam gives him one of those sharply assessing looks from under his long hair and when it clicks for him he falls right into step with Dean, rounding his shoulders, looking abashed and a little more shy than Dean can believe. He suddenly seems, not younger, exactly, but more innocent with it, somehow. It’s all subtle little cues in his body language and a less sure grip on his stick. Dean rewards him with another Dr Pepper and a basket of fries. They are already good at this, and they’re getting better. It’s a fucking revelation. Dean hasn’t had this kind of rapport with anyone in a very, very long time. If ever. 

It gets them noticed, though, and not in the way Dean had hoped. He’d been angling for a little time with the cute bartender, or one of the local girls out to blow off steam on a regular Thursday, but, as it turns out, it’s the good old boys out to pick a fight that take notice, for whatever reason. It’s Dean’s looks, or Sam’s youth, or the fact that they have some kind of energy sparking between them all night that makes two guys follow them out into the parking lot and when Dean gets grabbed by a third that was waiting in the shadows, he isn’t the least bit surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised. 

The jaundiced one in front of Dean is spitting at him, calling him a “pretty boy faggot” and Dean wants to roll his eyes at that. The guy behind him is big and meaty, but the potbelly Dean is being held up against doesn’t really bode well for him. Dean’s grateful, though. It means he’s being firmly pressed back into the guy’s paunch and none of his naughty bits are touching Dean in any way. He’s had this kind of thing happen to him before and there’s nothing more exasperating than being called that while the shithead doing it is pressing his hard on into your ass. 

The other guy, who is supposed to be holding Sam off to the side, really isn’t ready for Sam.   
Dean doesn’t think anyone is ready for Sam. 

He gets to see it all happen in that slightly accelerated time that means it feels like time is actually slowing down. The kid steps away from the grip on his arm and punches the guy holding him as hard as he can, first in the crotch and then in the neck, which is unbelievably dirty fighting. It gets worse after that. Sam is on top of the guy in front of Dean before he can even move his head to track the noise. Sam’s up against his back, his blade at the guy’s throat and his other hand pushing the guy’s head back so far that Dean can see straight up his nostrils. Then Sam grins a rack full of knives at the guy holding Dean. He looks unhinged but completely in control, which is twice as scary as if he was jittery. 

-Let him go, Sam says and his voice is in that flat register that comes off as entirely too calm for the situation and all the more dangerous because of it. 

The guy he’s holding tries to shuffle and Sam presses in harder. Dean’s goon is dithering, which is, again, kind of funny. This is only going to go one way, and Dean’s waiting for them to acknowledge that, even if it’s obviously going to cost them in pride. Dean has a blade of his own stuck down his boot, but he wouldn’t really need it to take care of the sack of flab behind him. Right now he’s more curious as to what the hell Sam is going to do. 

-Why should I? The guy behind Dean asks, and this time Dean does roll his eyes.   
-Yeah, why should he? Is what the guy Sam’s got by the neck comes up with. “You not going to kill me.” 

The thing is, neither of these assholes understand that Sam isn’t posturing. Sam is willing to do violence here. Dean smiles at Sam thinking “show them, kid” and hopes he’s not going to wind up with dead bodies tonight. 

-I’m not going to kill you, Sam says and his voice is still low and soft, only now it’s rich with promises. “I’m going to use my knife on you in lots of interesting ways, but I’m not going to kill you. I’ll stick it everywhere. It’ll hurt.” 

It’s that last thing that does it, like the air is suddenly full of ice crystals. The guy behind Dean lets go and takes a few steps back. Dean shrugs his shoulders, rights his jacket and turns around, executing the kind of neat right hook that drops an opponent quick and easy. Then he turns back to Sam and the ringleader, who is currently getting a really close shave where Sam is idly scraping his blade up and down across his jugular without actually breaking the skin. 

-You can let him go now, Dean suggests.   
-Why should I? Sam asks and scrape, scrape goes the blade while the guy actually whimpers. “Pretty boy faggot like me should get to stick something somewhere tonight, don’t you think?”   
-He’s pissing himself right now, dude, Dean says, and the guy actually is, dark stain spreading on the front of his jeans. 

Sam looks disgusted but his eyes are a little too blank for Dean’s liking. The switch has flipped and Dean doesn’t even know why it happened now when they’re not in danger anymore. Sam tucks his face in closer and talks right into the guy’s ear. 

-I think I should give you a scar. So you’ll remember.

With that he moves the knife to the side of the guy’s head and cuts a notch in the top of his ear, like a farmer marking a pig. It’s enough for the guy to fall whimpering to his knees, holding his head in his hands and blubbering out apologies and pleas for mercy. They leave them there like that after Dean’s made sure that they’re all still alive. Sam wipes his knife clean on the back of the guy’s shirt. Sam isn’t even breathing hard. 

Dean waits until they’re back in the motel room before addressing the obvious. Sam’s just come out of the bathroom wearing sleep sweats and another of Dean’s t-shirts. Dean doesn’t remember giving the kid free reign on his stuff, but whatever. 

-You went a little hard on that guy, Dean says, keeping his tone nice and neutral. 

Sam sits down on his bed and looks up at Dean, and the little shit is giving him that innocent, tilted under-the-bangs look that comes across as contrition and bad puppy ready to be scolded. 

-Don’t even try, Dean says and he almost laughs at the way Sam lowers his gaze. 

It’s a good show, but it’s really not going to work when Dean’s still got a little adrenaline buzz humming in his veins from the sheer unexpected violence of the night and the additional something more that comes from watching Sam act the way he had. Sam takes a deep breath. 

-I’m not good with… Sam starts and rubs his hands along his own thighs like he’s trying to push away excess energy.   
-Getting jumped by bullies? Me neither. But, kid, you can’t cut someone over something like that. It’s going to get us into trouble.   
-Us? Sam asks. 

That brings Dean up short. 

-Was I not clear on that? You get into trouble, I get into trouble… it’s bad for both of us. For a second there I thought you were going to slit his throat.   
-Yeah, me too, Sam says. 

He stares down at the floor for a long second and then he looks up at Dean and … smiles. It’s a blindingly, knee-meltingly pretty smile. Sam has dimples. 

-Ah, kid. Jesus, Dean says.   
-I’m … sorry? And it’s too much of a question to actually mean he is apologetic.   
-Did it really push your buttons that hard? Dean asks instead, because this is something he needs to know, where Sam’s hard lines are is something he needs to identify for future reference.   
-I don’t… Sam starts, but then his words dry up and his gaze drops to the floor again. 

Dean figures he’s going to have to take a risk here and walks up to the bed, close enough that he can cup a palm under Sam’s jaw and tilt his head up so he can see the kid’s eyes. He’s got lovely eyes, too, variable and interesting. 

-I don’t kill people, Sam. I don’t want to be the cause of people getting killed. Not like that. Okay? 

Sam keeps up the eye contact and it goes deep very quickly, Sam trying to read him all the way down to his soul and Dean’s thinking that he’s holding something in his hands that is a lot more wounded and a lot more dangerous than he’s really realized. He’s seeing it now, though. Whatever this kid’s been through, it’s been a lot worse than Dean’s bothered to imagine, even with the scars he’s seen. 

-I couldn’t let them hurt you, Sam says.   
-Thank you for that, seriously, but don’t kill anyone. 

Sam kind of nuzzles into his hand, a sleight movement, hardly enough for Dean to feel. 

-Can I cut them a little? Sam asks and now he’s flirting subtly. 

Dean can’t help it. He laughs, then he tugs at a curl of Sam’s hair and nods. 

-Sure, kid, you can cut them a little.   
-Not a kid, Sam tells him. 

And Dean thinks that’s probably more true than he wants it to be.


	10. Family

Sam and John do not hit it off.   
It’s pretty much the worst case scenario right from the get go. 

Dad sent coordinates and Dean talked it over with Sam before calling dad and informing him that he was going to bring company. He listened to dad giving him a five minute dressing down, the shortness of which was probably more because of the monetary cost of the call than because John was done by then, before he barked out orders about where and when they were to meet up. 

Dean told Sam that his dad could be a little … grouchy. Sam nodded and then stared out the window for about an hour in dead silence. That’s okay, Dean’s not surprised. They have this thing going on, this very fragile connection beginning to set down roots and family is a difficult topic for Sam. Big, burly guys who bark out orders probably aren’t going to be a hit either. 

Sam chews it over for a while and then starts asking questions, which Dean wasn’t really expecting, but when he thinks about it, it makes sense. Sam’s probably been in a lot of family situations where he’s been the outsider and getting the most amount of information about anyone in a position of authority beforehand has probably been necessary, and not just something he asks for out of idle curiosity. 

Underneath that there’s a seething kind of antagonism that Dean doesn’t have the first clue how to handle. It seems too pointed to be a general thing right from the outset and that’s not good. 

-I’m not going to bring you in on the job, but I need to introduce you. He’s going to be around and he’s going to want to meet you.   
-Vet me. You mean he’s going to need to vet me. Make sure I’m not a monster.   
-Probably. I’m not going to make excuses for that, okay? He’s old school. Bobby will do the same thing when I take you to meet him. It’s just how they operate, nothing personal.  
-Who’s Bobby?   
-Old family friend. I want you to meet him, he can probably help you better’n I can, but my dad… That’s a different story.   
-Family always is, Sam says. And after a pause he adds. “Or so I’ve been told.” 

Dean hates that tone of voice, he really does. There’s so much hurt there that’s scarred down deep and turned in on itself. Makes him wish he’d met Sam a long time ago. 

Dad chooses a diner. It’s clean and well lit and about half full. Dad’s in a booth at the back, back to a wall, eyes on the door. Dean walks Sam right over to him and takes the cursory hug dad gives him, watches Sam watch them and then does the introductions. John’s on the offense right from the start. They’ve hardly even sat down before the interrogation begins. 

He asks where Sam’s from, where he’s going, what his plans are, how old he is, where his family is, how long he plans on staying with Dean and Dean thinks to himself “oh shit”. Every single thing dad asks about is something Sam doesn’t want to talk about. Sam, though, is slick and polite and answers every question saying absolutely nothing of substance, which only makes alarm bells sound in dad’s head, Dean can tell. So dad starts prying harder, digging his nails in. Sam takes it for longer than Dean thought he would. They’ve ordered and they’ve got coffee in front of them when Sam seems to decide that he’s had enough. 

Dean feels the tension pull taut as a bowstring and then Sam does something that not even seasoned hunters would ever have dared to try with John Winchester. 

-Your son told me you started hunting when your wife was killed, Sam says and his voice has gone into that mild flat range that Dean has started to read as very bad news. 

He can’t look away from the head-on collision about to happen. John’s face twists in something that flashes pain and anger and then evens out into a mask that Dean knows means he’s about two words away from snapping. The only problem with that is that Sam’s completely indifferent to the flaring nostrils and the back-down vibe. Sam’s not intimidated in the least. John gives a very curt answer in the affirmative, falling almost predictably back into something that sounds like military cadence. 

That’s probably smart, because while they get their food and Dean tries gamely to eat it, Sam uses every single scrap of information he’s got on Dean and dad to completely eviscerate John with the kind of questions that cut just as deep as the initial volley John shot at Sam. It becomes painfully obvious really quickly that Sam is just as good at it as John, if not better. If family is a button for Sam, he uses that to go for the vulnerable underbelly of the guy in front of him now. Dean’s on the sidelines and he thinks once or twice that he should stop this, he should tell dad that they’ll meet up later, but he can’t walk away, because it’s … riveting, the way Sam picks at John without ever giving up that he knows exactly how hard he’s hitting. 

And he’s polite while he does it. Interested. He never lets go of that deadly calm, while John’s veneer is actually visibly cracking. Some of Sam’s questions and comments on their lifestyle come out in a way that means he’s not only tearing at the very base fabric of their family dynamic, he’s actually questioning John’s ability to keep it together while Sam’s criticizing the way he raised Dean. 

Dad is pissed. 

Holy hell, is dad pissed. Right when he draws a huge big breath to let Sam have it, pulse visibly throbbing at his temple, Sam looks down at the fork in his hand and gives a shimmering illusion of a smile. 

-My fork doesn’t match, he says and Dean can feel his eyes go wide. 

Sam looks up and locks gazes with John who has now schooled his features into a blank nothing. 

-You put silver down before we walked in. Holy water in my glass. Spilled salt. 

Dad says nothing, just flicks a glance at Dean. Dean doesn’t have anything to say, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

-Did I pass your tests? Sam asks and arches an eyebrow. 

Dad doesn’t deny it. As a matter of fact he looks angry again and the glance he gives Dean this time is accusatory. 

-Don’t look at him, Sam says mildly. “You don’t trust him to know better, that’s okay. Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua ... you want me to go on? No? Are we done here?” 

John looks at Dean again and this time the glance reads differently. This time there’s something there that Dean thinks is probably worse. 

-Yeah, we’re done, John rumbles. 

Sam stands the second the words are out. He looks down at Dean and gives a tight nod. 

-I’m going back to the motel, he says and there’s not an ounce of give anywhere in him. “It was nice to meet you, sir,” he adds to John and then he walks out, back straight and head held high. 

You’d need a knife with the kind of edge that Sam keeps on his to cut the tension after that. 

-Who the hell is that kid? John barks.   
-That’s Sam, Dean says and he wants to smile, but he’s not stupid enough to try that.   
-Dean, I taught you better. 

“Better than what?” Dean thinks, but he just makes a questioning face at his father. 

-What the hell were you thinking, telling him your whole life’s story? Don’t you know how dangerous that is? John berates and Dean thinks “no more dangerous than going after a water spirit alone”.   
-Calm down, dad, he’s just…  
-Don’t tell me to calm down, John explodes and actually bangs his fist on the table, making the cutlery and china clang and dance. 

A couple of the patrons and one of the waitresses sends alarmed glances their way and Dean smiles and shrugs making an apologetic gesture. John has to work to calm himself and Dean watches, completely fascinated. Dad rarely loses his cool like this. 

-I asked you to take it easy on him, Dean says and he can’t help it, he’s amused. 

Proud of the kid too, for being so fucking smart and so goddamned ruthless with it. He didn’t say anything that isn’t true and he didn’t lose his temper and he beat John at his own game. For everything John learned about Sam, Sam took twice as much. Dean’s never seen his father so completely outplayed and it should make him feel bad for the old man, but Sam earned that the hard way and it’s like when you play poker, don’t bet more than you can afford to lose. And don’t underestimate your opponent.

-Son, John says after a moment and he’s struggling to keep himself composed, “you can’t just take in a kid like that. He has to have family he can go to, someone…”  
-All due respect, sir, Dean says. “That’s really none of your business.”

Dad looks at him like he wants to throttle Dean. 

-Do you know anything about this kid? I mean, really, Dean, you can’t think with your dick on something as serious…  
-I’m going to stop you right there, Dean says putting a hand up. “That’s not what it’s like.” 

And now dad looks incredulous. 

-You pick up some kid off the street and you’re trying to tell me you’re not fucking him? dad says bluntly. 

Oh, this is not going well. Dean can feel his own temper starting to fray and he knows dad is just picking at him now, because Sam walked off and he didn’t get any satisfaction there. 

-You know what? Dean says carefully and puts firm reins on his temper. “Let’s just drop this and talk about why we’re here instead, okay? Sam is my concern. It’s not an issue.”  
-It is if I say it is, John tells him in that “I make the rules” tone that Dean hasn’t really had any use for when it comes to anything other than the hunt in since he was in his teens. “Don’t you push me on this, boy.” 

Dean leans his elbows on the table and hunches forward a little, smiling to make the conversation seem friendlier than it is to not spook the locals. They’ve given enough of a show already. 

-What are you going to do, dad? Dean asks pleasantly.   
-Call CPS.   
-Sam’s an emancipated minor. 

John glares at him. 

-You wanted me here for a job. I’m here. I brought Sam to meet you as a courtesy. He’s not a threat unless you treat him like one. It’s my call, dad.   
-Like hell. You don’t know…   
-And neither do you, Dean cuts him off. “You don’t even know the kid. Let’s just focus on the job.” 

Dad sits there, trying to stare him down, but Dean finds that his tolerance for that has gone up about two hundred percent since he started traveling with Sam. 

-I don’t like it, dad says finally.   
-I’m not asking you to, Dean counters thinking “I don’t really care”. 

The job, as it turns out, is a pretty basic salt-and-burn that has some added complications when it comes to actually accessing the deceased. The affected family has one of those incredibly complicated and frankly gothic histories that goes all the way back to the goddamned Mayflower. They have to work through some serious genealogy to find their customer. It’s tedious work, too, lots of church records and big books that only the local historian is allowed to handle with white cotton gloves on. Dean thinks randomly that Sam would love this part. 

Sam makes himself fairly scarce. Dean’s not sure where he spends his days, but he’s seen him at the library a couple of times and then at a second hand book store, so he’s obviously keeping himself amused. They text back and forth and meet up in the evenings, unless dad needs Dean for something. There’s tension, but it’s mostly about the two of them and not Dean so much, which is kind of hilarious. Dean thinks he would have had a better chance at getting his father to play nice if he had introduced Sam as his boy and told Sam to act vapid. That thought actually makes him snigger. 

Dad is very disapproving. That makes less than no sense at all. Dean doesn’t understand why it makes the least bit of difference to him if Dean’s keeping company with Sam. He’s acting like Dean’s making a grievous error every time Dean talks to Sam, or heads off to get something to eat with Sam, or even gets a text from Sam. It’s every single cliché about how fathers are supposed to act when their kids are keeping unsuitable company, and that is the thing that makes Dean want this job to be over. 

Sam provoked dad in a way that means dad’s going to be all over this until it’s resolved to his satisfaction and Dean’s pretty sure that would mean getting Sam far, far away from Dean. He has no idea why dad won’t just drop it, it’s not like Dean hasn’t had company before. Granted, it’s mostly been other hunters, or hunters’ kids. Come to think of it, all of those were probably vetted too at some point, but Dean’s never had a problem with that. Besides, dad’s fooling himself if he thinks he has even the vaguest idea of all the crazy shit Dean got up to when he wasn’t around. Which, let’s face it, was a lot of the time.

When dad finally finds the great grand uncle who is haunting the family they’re trying to help Dean is relieved that the actual digging and burning part of the job has finally arrived. He gets thrown into a mausoleum wall, and that sucks, but it’s not exactly rare. Every time, though, it feels like being picked up by the hand of god and flung. He’s limping, his ribs are badly bruised and his shoulder aches from where dad had to pop it back in its socket when dad gets him back to the motel. 

Sam takes one look at him and the slow, low string of curses that trickle out of him sound like a growl. He’s at Dean’s side before dad can set foot in the room. 

-I got him, Sam says and shuffles Dean’s good arm over his shoulder, starts moving them forward.   
-I can… dad says.  
-I got him, Sam cuts him off and the “don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out” doesn’t really need to be said.   
-Down, boy, Dean murmurs to Sam. “It’s okay, dad. You go get cleaned up.”

John stands there, wavering a little. He took a header into the recently dug up dirt, but he’s just muddy, maybe a little bruised. He looks between them when Sam helps Dean down onto his bed and gives Sam an uncharitable stare before he turns to go. 

-I got you, Dean, Sam says and starts helping him out of his jacket.


	11. Nightmares

There wasn’t really a starting point for Dean when it comes to hunting. He can’t actually remember a time when he didn’t hunt, train to hunt, train to be a better hunter. Bobby used to say he was a natural. Dad never said much of anything, just took him out for survival exercises and target practice and kept up with drills and the kind of homework that gave Dean a lifetime’s worth of nightmares by the time he was ten. He doesn’t remember anything else. He knows well enough to understand that the kind of indifference he lives with now comes from being battle scarred.

On a good day Dean can convince himself that dad did the best he could. On a bad day he thinks his old man is a bit of a bastard. Most days this is just what Dean is, what he does. And he’s damned good at it. He’s loyal to dad, but he doesn’t always like him. It’s a complicated relationship, filled with the kind of tension that will never resolve itself.

Older hunters that he meets on the job are mostly a little rough around the edges, run down the same way his dad is, from living hard and seeing too much and straying around the edges of normal too often to be anything other than completely messed up. They more or less unvaryingly dismiss him as a young buck who is still too wet behind the ears to have any kind of skill worth respecting. Dean’s played into that, used it to his advantage, more than once. And he usually knocks them on their asses when it really comes down to it, because he knows more about doing the job than any of them. He has almost twenty years of experience and none of it came cheap.

Dad never kept anything from him after that fuck-up with the shtriga. He never kept much from Dean before that either, but there was always this thin line that dad danced along where he wavered between keeping Dean safe and keeping him innocent. Innocence isn’t something Dean was ever all that big on, because what you don’t know can kill you. Dopplegangers and skinwalkers and werewolves and ghosts kill you. Every creepy-crawly and kitsune and water spirit kill you. Every busted light bulb gives him shivers and raises his hackles, every cold spot and sulfur smell pings his radar because they are precursors of the things that can kill you.

Dean knows he’s not normal, whatever that might mean. He’s good in a fight, he’s a decent marksman, he can take a beating and administer one. He’s an okay field medic. He’s got an innate understanding of machines and mechanics. He’s not half bad to look at and he’s good at talking his way into and out of trouble. He’s also got faults to mar his gifts, and he’s aware of them too. Most of what he knows he learned hands on. Most of what he is he was made into. Some things, though, have been laid down even deeper than that.

Dean doesn’t kid himself about the kind of happily ever after that dad still tries to sell when he’s in his cups. It’s not that Dean doesn’t want that for dad, he does, but the truth of it is that he’s seen too many good hunters go down hard and bloody and that’s the way of it, that’s the life.

When he wakes up wearing nothing but boxers, propped carefully on his side, he knows that that’s all Sam, because dad didn’t stick around. He’s completely unsurprised by that.

-That how things work? Sam asks handing over painkillers and water. “He calls, you jump, you get the shit kicked out of you, he bails?”   
-Pretty much, Dean answers and his voice is down to a rough rasp. “He’d a stuck around if you weren’t here.”   
-Yeah, sure, Sam says but he doesn’t sound like he believes it for a second. “Let me check your ribs.”

It’s obvious in the way Sam touches him that this isn’t the first time Sam has helped someone like this. His touch gentle, but firm. He runs his hands lightly over Dean’s side, feeling out the bruises and the bones underneath.

-Ice and rest, I think, Sam says, head down, eyes hidden.   
-Yeah.   
-Take a deep breath.

Dean takes a deep breath and it hurts like holy hell, but he can. As long as he can, they’re not going to need a doctor.

-Just bruised, then, Sam says.

Dean coughs out a “yeah” and then tries to roll over, but Sam’s hands keep him where he is. He feels around the joint of the shoulder too, same careful touches, gentle prodding and not a glimpse of his eyes.

-For the shoulder too. No driving for a couple of days.   
-Then I hope you can, ‘cause staying here is not a good idea.

That gets him Sam’s eyes, at least. They’re weary and worried.

-That behemoth of yours? Thought you’d rather stay here than let me.   
-Why? You a bad driver?

Sam flickers a smile at him.

-I drive like a car thief.   
-Hands on ten and two, five under the limit, Dean mumbles, ‘cause he’s not all with it, but that was a give away.   
-You got it.

Sam gets their shit together, gets them checked out, gets them in the car and on the road. If Dean was alone he would have powered through, but he’s got Sam with him now, so he doesn’t have to. He’s not all that sure that dad would have stuck around, to be frank. Dad’s been sketchy about that kind of thing, like he’s got a fire perpetually lit under his ass. Dean knows there’s something hounding John, and he can take a guess at what it is. Dad gets this way a couple of times a year, has since Dean was little.

-Where am I going? Sam asks when he turns out on the highway.   
-Just pick a direction and drive until I tell you my ribs are killing me, Dean says and shuffles himself into the most comfortable position he can find and does breathing exercises until the need to scream has died down a little.

They hole up in a another motel in another town that Dean doesn’t even bother registering the name of. He’s drifting a little, dozing on his bed, listening abstractedly to the noise from some cop show and Sam moving around. He falls asleep and then wakes up when Sam says his name and pushes water and painkillers at him before handing him a carton of lo mein and a blue plastic fork. He eats, hobbles to the bathroom, goes back to sleep. A weird kind of calm settles with not having to do all this on his own. He’s not sure if he likes it.

It’s some indeterminable hour of the night when he wakes up to nightmare noises. For a minute he’s disoriented, unsure. There’s a dull ache in his ribs and a sharp ache in his shoulder and he feels bleary, not sure where he is. It’s not the swimmy-head of drunkenness, but he still feels like he’s been rattled around. It all clicks as soon as his eyes have been open for a couple of seconds, though. Mausoleum. Dad. Motel. _Sam_.

Rolling over isn’t pleasant, getting out of bed is worse, but Sam is making the kinds of noises that he damned well wants to put a stop to. He has his hand out and is about to shake Sam when he thinks better of it. He isn’t really sure he could take a kick right now, so he says the kid’s name instead, loud and sharp and watches as Sam freezes up, like prey. Sam lies stock still, hardly breathing, hands curled into fists.

-Sam, you’re dreaming, Dean says. “You’re okay, you’re safe.”

A little of the tension bleeds out and Sam rolls over slowly, cautiously, to peer at him over his own shoulder.

-I woke you?   
-Yeah. You okay now?

Sam nods and Dean backs up the couple of steps necessary to sit on his own bed. He reaches out for the light on the bedside table and clicks it on, making them both blink and shuffle. Sam sits up with his back to the wall, looking spooked and a little frantic.

-Want to tell me about it? Dean asks, not really with it yet, but a lot more awake than he wants to be.   
-Why? Sam asks, sounding suspicious.   
-I don’t know. It’s supposed to help when you have nightmares, talking.

Sam sits there quietly, watching him, looking at him. Studying him. It’s way too goddamned early in the morning for that kind of scrutiny. Dean lies back down with as little noise as possible, fucking ribs. Sam just sits for a while, breathing too slow and regulated to be altogether normal. Dean turns off the light and just lays there, waiting to hear the rustles of Sam settling back down. He doesn’t. Dean drifts a little, not really thinking about much of anything.

-This one place, Sam says slowly, voice drained and tired, midnight nightmare heavy.

Dean makes a humming, inquiring noise to show he’s listening, not asleep, even though he knows Sam can tell.

-They made me sleep in the laundry room because I was so loud. Woke their own kids, I don’t know, screaming, I guess.

Dean doesn’t say anything.

-It wasn’t… it’s such a fucking cliché, but it wasn’t my fault. I don’t… I never know when they’ll hit, what would set me off. Night terrors, the counselor called them. I don’t… I didn’t want to talk about it.   
-You don’t have to, Dean tells him, soft and quiet.   
-I know, it’s just.

There’s another chunk of silence.

-That laundry room. Smelled like wet cement and fabric softener. I had a sleeping pad and a couple of blankets. It was … it should have been awful. It was awful, but it was the only spot in that house where I felt safe.

Dean gets it, he really does. It’s like sleeping in the backseat of the car when you’re too big for it to be comfortable, but it’s still the only place you feel right. He understands that, hiding in unlikely places. Remembers sleeping outside at Bobby’s, on top of one of the stacks of cars, in the bed of some old truck. Steel all around, stars up above.

-They took me on because they thought that a smart kid wouldn’t be as much trouble, and I was a straight A student.   
-Sam…  
-Baby Boy. It was on my papers. Fuck, they loved that. Once the kids in school got a hold of that they wouldn’t stop, you know? I wasn’t Johnny anymore, wasn’t even a person most of the time, just something to kick around. I was a scrawny kid.   
-You’re still a scrawny kid.   
-They didn’t think so when I broke the nose on one of the brothers.

Dean would like to punch a few noses himself. This is terrible, listening to all this trickling out of Sam like poison, like a horrifying, infected wound just oozing through the darkness.

-Idiots, Dean says quietly, because he understands the impulse, sure, but he also knows you don’t wake anyone that’s been traumatized by shaking them.

Stand well back and say their name, tell them where they are and that they’re safe and who they’re with, but don’t fucking touch. Took a shiner to learn that, and dad’s bewildered, panicked eyes, but Dean had figured that out early. It’s not so different, war veterans and abused kids. Just the size of the wallop you’ll get.

-I’ve got a lot of nightmare fodder, Dean, Sam says, like that’s a warning of some kind.   
-You do remember where you met me, right? Dean says and he lets a smile take shape on his lips, because he knows Sam will hear it. “Odds are, I’ll wake you up some night scaring the shit out of you.”

Sam is quiet again. There’s a little rustling, now, Sam shifting on the bed, but not laying back down. Stubborn.

-A warning. Say my name, loud and clear. Tell me where I am, who you are and don’t touch me. A bloody nose is not the worst thing you got to worry about with me.   
-‘Cause you cuddle your gun like a teddy bear.   
-From the guy who sleeps with a knife in his hand, Dean says.

He lets that sit for a while. Then he draws a deep breath, the sting in his lungs settling and exhales slowly.

-It’s a bad sign when you’re used to cuddling up with cold things, Dean tells Sam.

Sam makes a kind of snorting agreeing noise at that.

-Aren’t you going to tell me to go back to sleep? Sam asks after another long pause.   
-I’m not going to tell you what to do, I’m not your mother, Dean says.   
-You’re not going to get me a glass of warm milk and tuck me in? Read me a story? Oh, wow. That’s such a disappointment, Sam says and there’s the sarcastic little shit Dean has grown accustomed to.   
-How about if I tell you to shut your pie hole so I can get back to sleep.   
-Fair enough, Sam says and then finally Dean can hear him shuffling around to lay back down.

Dean listens as Sam breathes. It’s not so bad, just laying there, listening. As long as he doesn’t shift around too much, or breathe too deeply he’s not really in pain, just riddled will dull ache. That was actually a good result, the hunt went well. Dad was on his game, Dean was where he was supposed to be, things went as smoothly as could be expected. It doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence when even the good jobs still leave him banged up like this.

Not that that’s anything new.

-It’s counter intuitive to lay on broken ribs, but it’s actually easier to breathe that way, Sam says and that about does it for Dean.   
-I know, he says, because he does know.

He just really wishes that Sam didn’t.

-Would you, could you in the dark, Dean says quietly.

There’s a long disbelieving kind of quiet and then Sam’s voice comes softly amused.

-I would not, could not, in the dark.   
-Would you, could you, in the rain? Dean asks.   
-You’re being ridiculous, Sam tells him.

There’s a different quality to the silence at last, something less oppressive.

-Sleep tight, Sam-I-Am, Dean says.   
-… I think I prefer when you call me kid, Sam mutters and that’s the last thing either of them say as they drift off.

 


	12. Lost Boys

They take it easy for a couple of days while Dean’s ribs figure out a way to fit like they’re supposed to. Sam, oddly enough, doesn’t get restless, like he has every other time Dean’s been with him for more than a day. He doesn’t exactly hang around, though. He’s usually gone by the time Dean wakes up in the morning, which rattled Dean badly until he saw that all Sam’s stuff was still in the room, including the backpack sitting pretty right in the middle of his neatly made bed.

Sam isn’t some timid victim. Dean has to remind himself that, even though he’s pulled the kid out of trouble a couple of times, Sam’s pretty good at taking care of himself. And Dean’s got to remind himself that he has absolutely no right whatsoever to ask where Sam goes or what he does while he’s gone.

It really doesn’t have anything to do with how well Sam can take care of himself, though. It’s not like Dean’s his keeper, not even in the most tenuous sense. It’s just that … well. If Sam’s a stray, then he’s a cat. That’s the best analogy, really. He’ll come and go as he pleases. He’ll use his claws when he feels threatened and he’d probably purr if Dean scratched him just right, but he’s not going to be happy about any kind of chain or collar or locked door. That doesn’t mean that Dean doesn’t want to help, just make his life a little bit easier.

It’s Thursday afternoon and Sam has just gotten back with takeout, Mexican this time. Dean’s propped up with a couple of extra pillows and he’s been idly watching some nature documentary about the savannah. Sam takes a bite of his chicken wrap and watches a lion lick blood from the torn open belly of some kind of antelope. His expression is engaged and interested. Dean can’t help but smile at that.

-What? Sam asks.   
-You’re not squeamish, are you?

Sam just looks at him. Dean makes some kind of wry face. Sam lifts one shoulder in a shrug and goes right back to eating.

And Dean can’t help it. He likes the kid. He really genuinely likes this kid. It’s fucking weird how easy that happened.

-I’ve been trying to figure out what to do next, Sam says when the food is gone and the show has switched to something about airplanes.   
-Okay, Dean says.

Sam’s body language goes all kinds of tense. He rubs his hands down his thighs and then leans forward a little, making good solid eye contact.

-Not everything I had planned is fucked. But… getting from here to there is going to take me a couple of months.   
-Okay, Dean says.   
-If you’re serious about letting me tag along, you got to let me pay my way somehow. I won’t be a freeloader. It’s not who I am.   
-Okay, Dean says again, because he can’t really do a victory dance right now.

Also, he’s momentarily worried about what Sam’s going to offer up as payment.

-What I do, it’s dangerous, Dean says to derail that thought.   
-I noticed.   
-But it does have an academic side. Lots of research and reading over old newspapers and shit like that. You can help with that.   
-I can fight, Sam says calmly.   
-I know you can. I just don’t want to you to.

Sam gives him a look that’s a cross between incredulous and irritated.

-It’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself, but if you get hurt… that’s on me. I’m not that much of an asshole, okay?   
-And if you get hurt? Like when you went out with your dad, who you say is one of the best, what happens then, huh?   
-That’s … that’s not the same thing, Dean tries.   
-I mean, what happens to me? To the kid you have stashed in your motel room who can’t explain who he is.

That’s a valid concern. It’s a very valid concern no matter what the circumstances are, because that does not look good for either of them. But it’s okay, Dean has connections. He can… oh, Sam is probably not going to like this, but if they are going to ride together they have to have some kind of back story going.

-How do you feel about a brother? Dean asks.   
-I feel like we’re having two different conversations.   
-No. Yes, but no, we’re just having one.

Sam looks away, expression so guarded that it actually hurts a little to watch.

-It worked on the sheriff, Dean says. “If you want some kind of say on anything, it’s got to be family, man, you know that.”  
-I know, Sam says quietly.   
-I can get papers. Good papers, even.   
-So, we’re what? Brothers road tripping? Sam asks.

Dean shrugs.

-Yeah, okay, Sam says and it’s hushed and strained.

Dean figures Sam’s been told he’s family too many times when people have been too quick to take it back, or haven’t meant it, or meant it the wrong way. He wouldn’t have asked otherwise, he’d have just told Sam, but if this is going to work he needs Sam in on it and committed. It’s irrelevant that Dean’s got his own ache when it comes to family, complete with fire and monsters and blood and guts. Most people would probably say the same, it’s just a little more literal in his case.

-So what happens now? Sam asks.   
-I’ll make a few calls and then we start looking for a job or wait for someone to contact me.   
-Someone? You mean your dad? Sam asks. “You know he’s probably not going to be too thrilled about suddenly having a second son.”  
-I’ll deal with that if it comes up, Dean says and thinks the chances of that are slim to none and even if it did dad’s been in the game long enough to play along with anything Dean says just to not break cover.

Sam sits still for a long moment, gaze gone distant and face expressionless. Dean knows he’s watching a little too closely, but it’s sort of inevitable. This isn’t where he thought all this was going when he went after that creature in the skate park. It’s starting to feel like he’s in too deep with this kid. It’s too soon to feel like he might as well be Dean’s kid brother, like he has a place by Dean’s side, fitting there better than anyone he’s ever worked with. He doesn’t really know Sam, doesn’t really get the kid. He’s working on that, though.

Dean doesn’t know all that much about his own family. He knows John’s dad walked out when he was just a kid and that mom’s family was gone by the time they got married. He figures John would have gone to family back in the early days if there had been any, but he doesn’t have any memories of aunts and uncles or cousins. There’s a bunch of “uncles”, of course, all the hunters that John hasn’t managed to completely alienate over the years with his own brand of pigheadedness, but that’s not the same thing. It’s still something, some kind of grid of family and tenuous connections that would probably take him in if he came knocking. Bobby, for sure, and Joshua and Pastor Jim. A few others.

Dad has a journal, some trick he learned from an older hunter, somewhere to doodle in all his crazy and his threads of thought and everything he’s picked up over the years. Dean’s been through that thing several times, trying to understand what happened to them when his mom was murdered. There are a couple of photographs of mom and dad, pictures, symbols, dad’s meticulous notes, his medals, but hardly any of it is personal. John doesn’t like to talk about anything to do with family, or those early years. Dean had given all that up as a lost cause by the time he reached double digits. He doesn’t keep a journal himself. It makes him uneasy, for some reason.

It doesn’t really surprise him that Sam has a notebook, though. The kid is the kind of smart that’s going to find that helpful. Organizing. He has notes, pages and pages of them, and when Dean steals a glance over his shoulder one morning in a diner, he’s not the least bit surprised to see his own words condensed down to neat paragraphs on pretty much everything he’s ever told Sam about the things they hunt. He tries not let it get to him and instead he goes out and buys Sam a leather bound journal with a silver clasp and discrete symbols imprinted on the cover, a cross and a pentacle. It’s ridiculous, but it’s worth it for the look on Sam’s face.

Dean’s life, the way it’s structured, pretty much revolves around hunting. When he’s going from A to B, when he’s crisscrossing and traversing and retracing his steps, it’s always been about the hunt. He knows he shouldn’t be dragging Sam into that and he knows the kid has a life of his own and a plan and a way out and ahead, but when Sam is in the shotgun seat, all gangly limbs and swerved concentration, it’s kind of hard to remember that he doesn’t live there.

Dean tells himself it’s not permanent and tries to keep in mind what it means to be the kind of alone that he’s been comfortable with since dad handed over the keys to the Impala and told him to stay safe and keep in touch. It isn’t that Dean’s been lonely, he knows how to find company when he needs it, but there’s something about having Sam there that makes Dean think that the difference between alone and lonely has a lot more gradients than he’s ever really bothered to consider.

The thing about hunting is that it’s erratic, unpredictable. There’s no telling when a job will turn up, or when there will be weeks of nothing but chasing your own tail. Dean usually uses that time to bolster his wallet, hook up and take care of minor repairs and replenish his ammo, things like that. Now there’s Sam. Dean has to actually think about that for a few days before he knows what to do with the sudden realization that he’s got to take Sam into account. He forgets to ask what Sam wants, if there’s anywhere Sam wants to go.

Sam just shakes his head, says “nothing” and “nowhere” and Dean gets that strange pang again that makes his insides go momentarily cold thinking about how Sam could have been killed that first night and no one would even have known. He wouldn’t have known. ‘Cause, yeah, woe be to the little lost children, the Lost Boys, the waifs and misfits and freaks that never really got a break, but thinking about Sam like just another statistic makes Dean’s hands clammy.

He gets a little more out of Sam asking if there’s anywhere he doesn’t want to go and Sam gives him one of those long studying looks and then lists five cities, all in Georgia. That’s okay. Dean can do without the peaches and the goddamned heat. He doesn’t ask for particulars. He’s not sure he wants details.

Dean has scars of his own, but he’s earned them and whatever feelings he has about them are not connected to abuse, vanity or presumptions. He knows when and where he fucked up, when he should have gone an inch to the right, or shut his goddamned mouth a second sooner. He’s got scar tissue on his knuckles too. He knows what he is and what all that means.

That’s not what Sam has going on. Not even close.

Sam’s still skittish. He’s not on high alert around Dean anymore, but he’s not easy either. He’s good at faking it most of the time, but Dean’s gotten into the habit of watching the kid and he sees every aborted flinch and uneasy shuffle. Sam’s body language is deceptively casual in public but goes tightly defensive as soon as there’s any kind of perceived threat. Sometimes Dean has honestly no fucking idea what sets the kid off, but the way Sam tightens up makes him uneasy too and that’s not good. It’s like watching a hunting dog go on point, even though it’s not at all as obvious as that. It’s just that when Sam gets that way, Dean feels his own defenses ramp up like crazy. It can be a bad thing, especially when Dean’s the one that sets him off, because there’s this reverberation between them that makes it like a feedback loop and Dean doesn’t have a strategy for dealing with that. It makes the hairs on his arms stand up.

They’re still in the “getting to know you” phase. Sam shouldn’t be able to get to him like this. Sam shouldn’t be able to slip in under his defenses in ways that mean Dean reacts to him bypassing pretty much all of his rational thoughts and hitting him right in the lizard brain, instincts screaming for action and reaction. The kid does, though.

Dean thinks it bugs Sam a little too. No, he knows it does. Sam actually looks vaguely startled a time or two when things get that kind of intense.

Normally, Dean’s pretty good at knowing what his own intentions are, which makes it easier to figure out what he’s doing, but with Sam he’s clearly out of his depth. That intensity usually translates into fight or flight. Or, as has been known to be the case, fight or fuck. He’d honestly be good with either with Sam, but the thing is, it really isn’t like that. That intensity just fizzles around and goes nowhere, which leaves him uncomfortable and confused and those aren’t good things for Dean to be.

The thing is, hunting is what he does. It’s all the purpose he has. If Sam is coming with him that means Sam is going to be subjected to the life and Dean already knows he doesn’t want to bring Sam into that. Not really. He wants to help Sam out, let him ride along, figure out what he’s going to do next, but he doesn’t want to turn Sam into a hunter. That’s not the life this kid has planned for himself and Dean does not want to be the catalyst that sets him on that path. He knows how bloody it gets, how deeply it messes with your perception. He knows the costs too, better than anything.

Dean gets the sense that Sam hasn’t lived out of motel rooms much, but he’s lived the kind of itinerant life that means he knows how to be economic with his movements, not take up a lot of space. He’s neat and clean in the same way as Dean, with bouts of temporary messiness that gets quickly cleared away. He doesn’t have enough of anything. Not enough shirts or socks or underwear. Not enough meat on his bones. Not enough words to go around some days.

Dean thinks these things are deeply formed habits, like scars. It’s a terrible thought to have that they are so vastly different, but there are things that are so much the same that it forms an unspoken understanding between them whether they want it to or not. Dean’s not sure about Sam. He’s not sure if he’s doing right by the kid or if he’s just doing a different kind of wrong from what Sam is used to. It doesn’t make it easier, thinking along those lines. Dean’s sure he’s still the better option, but he remembers Sam’s soft, tired voice saying “out of the frying pan”.

And Sam still watches him in that same careful, measured way.

Over breakfast one morning Dean catches a case. He’s been idly sifting through the local paper and he sees all the telltale signs of a ghost. He knows there’s an opportunity there to go open up a grave, burn the bones of a teacher who never really let go of her family after death. He looks across the table at Sam and thinks about it for a long moment, really considering his options, wondering if he should just pass this one on, let someone else deal with it. He thinks about leaving Sam back at their room and taking care of it himself. He thinks about finding the closest bus station and dropping Sam there, handing over all his ready cash and giving the kid his blessing. All those things are roads that open up ahead and none of them seem to be preferable. Then Sam looks up and meets his gaze, eyes calm and steady.

-What? Sam asks.

Dean thinks to himself “you don’t have to do this”. Sam quirks an expressive eyebrow at him and Dean feels the strings tighten around them, like a snare trap.

-Caught a live one, Dean says and the smile Sam gives him is bright and interested.

 


	13. Crusader

Sam isn’t particularly shocked when Dean explains about exhumation. He isn’t thrilled either, but Dean thinks he would have been uneasy if Sam had been. Sam’s face does this thing sometimes where he doesn’t have any expression at all and the thing about it is that it’s really very expressive. Dean’s sure there’s disapproval there and a kind of wry amusement over how fucked up things are, how incredibly fucked up Dean’s life is, and Sam’s too. Dean’s not sure how Sam can convey all that without actually making even a twitch of an eyebrow, but it’s all there.

They get to work.

Having Sam with him in the library makes things easier. Having Sam with him when he’s digging makes things even better. Sam’s got the whole cool-under-pressure thing down. He might mutter a little about how incredibly wrong the whole thing is, but he does it politely under his breath as he keeps digging. Dean appreciates the work ethic there.

Smooth sailing.

At least until the irate ghost of a tiny middle-aged school teacher materializes right in front of Sam and starts throwing her metaphysical weight around. For such a petite thing she sure has a lot of rage. Sam’s right in the line of fire and Dean can’t use his goddamned shotgun until the kid gets his ass out of the way. Dean has a moment of thinking “nice to know you” when she pushes Sam hard enough that the kid stumbles three steps towards the open grave and then he gets a grip.

There’s a strange moment where it feels like Dean is watching the whole thing from the outside and then he hears his own voice, drill sergeant harsh saying “down” and Sam doesn’t even falter, he hits the ground without a second’s hesitation. The salt rounds dispel the ghost just long enough for Dean to light a matchbook and toss it. It goes whoosh after that.

-Why are little old lady ghosts always so pissed? Dean grouses as he makes his way over to a sprawled out Sam. “Hey, kid, you alive?”

When Sam doesn’t answer Dean goes down on one knee and leans in to check him over. Sam is staring at the fire with rapt attention. When Dean puts a hand on his shoulder he turns adrenaline bright eyes on Dean and that’s … wow, that’s a good look for the kid.

-Alive? Dean asks. “Hurt?”   
-Yes. And no, Sam tells him and he’s got that junky shine now. Dean knows that look. He’s seen it often enough in the mirror.   
-Up we go, Dean tells him and reaches a hand out for Sam to grab.

Sam latches on to him by the wrist, solid grip, and lets Dean pull him up to standing, start dusting him off, patting him down.

-How long do we let it burn? Sam asks, eyes still on the fire.   
-All the way down. Stick around unless someone called the cops, tidy up and then it’s Miller time.

Sam realizes Dean still has hands on him and bats at him, irritated and jittery.

-Fine, I’m fine. Knock it off.   
-Oh, quit bitching.

Sam breaks his staring contest with the fire for just a second, giving Dean his full attention. He doesn’t say a goddamned thing, but Dean can feel that look all the way down to the base of his spine.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Sam likes it. They wait out the burning of the bones and fill the grave back in and there’s still more energy between them than there should be even if both of them are pretty much in prime condition. Dean’s feeling his ribs a little, but it’s just a lingering ache and Sam has got to be sore and bruised, but it’s not like that’s not something he’s used to.

Once they’re back in the car Sam settles into the shotgun seat and he’s trying to keep a crazy little grin from showing, but Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye anyway. He’s got trouble sitting still too, knee jiggling and fingers restless. He’s jacked up and this wasn’t even a real hunt. This was just a little salt-and-burn with a pretty mild ghost who only had enough in her for one good push. Dean can’t wait to take Sam out on something bigger.

He stops that thought right about the second he realizes he had it. He shouldn’t want that. He really shouldn’t want that for either of them.

-Is it always like that? Sam asks.   
-No. Shit, no. You already know it isn’t. It can go real wrong real fast, like the one with my old man the other week.   
-Not that, I know about that, I meant the… Sam makes a swooping gesture with his hands and Dean tracks it in his periphery for a second before taking a guess.   
-The fire?   
-Yes. That, Sam says and there’s some kind of satisfaction under the words that Dean doesn’t want to look to closely at.   
-Yeah, Dean tells him and watches the sly smile that Sam is still trying to keep contained for whatever reason.

Fire’s always been a friend of Dean’s… when it didn’t hate him. And now Sam’s got the bug. Dean can see it. It’s not as simple as that, though. The life, it’s not forgiving. He should shut Sam down. Still remembers dad doing that to him when he came on his first hunt, got that first pure adrenaline buzz. Dad’s stern voice, his dismissive “it’s not a game, son” shutting him down as efficiently as if someone had doused him with ice water. Seeing that smile on Sam’s face means Dean doesn’t really want to do that. It’s probably wrong to encourage Sam to ride the high, but fuck it. Dean’s never claimed to be a boy scout.

They drive, watching the sun come up and after a while the adrenaline rush settles and Sam crashes, falling asleep half hunched on his side, head propped up against the door, cushioned with one of Dean’s hoodies. It’s kind of peaceful until traffic inevitably picks up sometime before the business day starts. They’re in-between and nowhere, but there’s always people heading from one place to another and Dean’s eyes are starting to feel gritty enough that he knows he needs coffee and food. They’ll get a room after that.

Sam wakes up as soon as the car stops. He shuffles upright, swift and graceful and doesn’t even ask where they are, just looks around the parking lot and then at the diner and then at Dean.

-Coffee? He asks, tone hopeful and eyes surprisingly sharp for someone who was out cold just seconds ago.

Dean smiles. Thinks about how much he likes this fucking kid and then gets hit with one of those sudden hot spine tingling flushes that he thinks he has been tamping down since he first laid eyes on him. Sam is unrepentantly gorgeous in the early morning light. He’s sleep rumpled and unwashed and half feral, but, damn, the kid is a hot mess.

-Yeah, I’ll buy you coffee, you fucking addict, Dean says and smacks him in the thigh.

Sam doesn’t shy away from the touch, just nods and opens his door, getting out and stretching until he’s about three times as long as he should be, spine popping and shoulders torqued out and back. Dean heads for the door of the diner and knows without looking that Sam is on his heels, a silent shadow, looking like he’s ambling when he is cataloguing the grounds and the cars and the people and the place, working out all the angles. Dean’s never really seen anyone who wasn’t a hunter do that with that kind of constancy.

There’s no denying that the kid has potential. Dean’s already seen that. Sam’s got the capacity for swift brutal violence, he’s smarter than hell, he’s a fast learner. He knows how to take a direct order too, or so it seems. All those things are good. They are the kinds of indicators that Dean would look for in any potential partner. He’s also very young. It shouldn’t feel so goddamned wrong to think of him as someone Dean wants to keep with him and he’s starting to slip a little with that, even when he knows Sam’s not in it for the long haul, has his own plans, a life to get on with.

None of those things are what Dean’s thinking about sitting across from him in a diner booth, though. No. Right now Dean’s kind of lost in thoughts about how he’d like to put the kid down on a bed and take him apart. Bite at the hinge of his jaw, take a fist full of that overlong hair and force his head back so he could get at that neck. Sam with his legs spread out sluttishly wide while Dean works two fingers into him. Sam looking at him with his unreadable eyes blown wide and betraying him, showing need and lust and something else, something deeper that would be just for what Dean can do to him. That eager, adrenaline bright spark directed at him instead of fire. The cool blown to bits by Dean’s hands on him. Those are the kinds of things that Dean’s thinking about while Sam sips his second coffee and watches the foot traffic.

And Sam is only seventeen. He hasn’t really even grown into his lanky limbs yet, even if he moves with a kind of economy and grace that should be years off. Dean’s been as good as his word. He’s never ever going to force anything, he wouldn’t, that’s not who he is. He flirts his way through life and he’s always been quick to take any and all offers, but he would never push the issue, especially not with someone like Sam who could actually gut him for making a wrong move. That thought should be a caution, a good enough warning, but Dean’s got his wires a little crossed and it only makes the whole thing more interesting. Getting past Sam’s defenses, making him want it, making him confess he wants it, probably, that’s a better game. He’s thinking about Sam on washed out sheets and he’s thinking about that spark of cool defiance that glitters in his eyes more often than not.

There’s also the fact that Sam stared down John and that he almost slit some random redneck’s throat. Those things show that there’s substance to him. And not a little anger. There’s also that calm competent way of handling what life throws at him. Gifted and talented, definitely. And more than a little dangerous. That’s really fucking attractive to someone like Dean who never exactly played well with others, but who can picture himself playing with Sam just fine. Dean wants to. He really, really does.

-So, what are we going to do now that you’ve popped my cherry? Sam asks, calm and steady.

Dean’s grateful he wasn’t trying to drink his own coffee at just that moment. As it is, he still has to stuff a few very explicit and untimely thoughts into a lock box in his mind to take out for further examination later.

-Well, if you liked it we can go again, Dean tells him with a smile, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Because, that thing he said about flirting his way through life? That’s pretty much automatic and he doesn’t have it in him to curb that, even with Sam. Even when he maybe should, even if Sam started it.

-Oh, I liked it just fine, Sam tells him and gives the attitude right back.

Dean thinks they actually are flirting now, over coffee and grave desecration, in some muted, vaguely aggressive way. It’s probably not a good sign that the ways in which they are fucked up mesh so well. Sam looks at him for a while, evaluating, thinking.

-Seriously, though, he says. “Where is all this going?”   
-That’s kind of the thing about how the life works. I don’t know. I don’t know where we’re going or what’s going to happen once we get there, Dean tells him with a shrug.   
-That seems messy, Sam says.   
-It is. It really is.

Sam looks out the window again and seems to be deep in thought and Dean can’t stop watching him, so he doesn’t even bother trying.

-So it’s all pretty much guerrilla warfare, Sam says with something distant in his eyes that takes all the fun out of the moment.

Dean thinks about it. He seriously thinks about it and about what he is going to say next. He likes Sam, he wishes he didn’t see the potential in Sam to be a damned near perfect partner for him, and probably a scarily good hunter too.

-You can’t think about it like that, Dean says finally.

Sam looks back at him with a lifted eyebrow.

-Some people get into it because they have some vendetta, blood feud, whatever. They tend to burn out fast and make stupid mistakes that get them killed. Some people think about it like a crusade, something they can do for faith and country and, I don’t know, apple pie? They tend to go longer, but in the end using god as your shield and the flag as a security blanket gets you just as dead.

Sam’s mouth twists just enough to form a little mocking curve and Dean knows he thinks this is Dean posturing, something like trying to lay down the law, or sound like an old hand, and that’s the kind of bullshit that Dean himself bridles at. He’s had it from so many corners since he started toddling along after dad on hunts and he knows how it pisses him off, so he lets his own expression go neutral and doesn’t try to do anything other than seem calm.

-How should I think about it, then, oh, wise one, Sam says.   
-That’s just it. This isn’t your life. It’s mine. You’ve got places to be and things to do and you’re just along for the ride for a little while.

Sam mulls that over for a bit, sipping his coffee and making little looping swirls in the spilled sugar on the table with the tip of his index finger.

-So, how do you think about it? Sam asks finally.   
-This is not just what I do, this is what I am. There’s a difference. I’m going to try to stay alive as long as possible and do as much as I can along the way. I don’t want to die stupid, you know? So, it’s not a war, or a crusade, for me. It’s how I live my life.

Sam keeps their gazes locked and he seems to evaluate that, examine it from all available angles. It’s not that Dean hasn’t seen this kind of focus before, but he has no idea what’s going on behind Sam’s eyes.

-Messy, Sam says, and it’s like the verdict at the end of a long courtroom drama.   
-Yeah, it is.   
-Your dad? He asks and Dean understands the question.

He really doesn’t want to answer it at first, because Sam already doesn’t like dad and that’s a dark cloud on the horizon building up to be a real thunderstorm some day.

-He’s a crusader, Dean says finally and it feels like the most revealing thing he’s ever said about his father to anyone, anywhere at any goddamned time. “Scary good at what he does and very dedicated.”

Sam knows there’s more to this and he’s just waiting Dean out. Dean doesn’t want to say the next part, he really doesn’t, but Sam keeps their gazes locked.

-He still thinks we’re going to get to go home some day, Dean says quietly.   
-And you don’t.   
-My home burned to the ground when I was four. There’s nowhere to go back to.

And if they are orphans in a storm they have that to understand each other by too, Dean thinks. Maybe Sam is one of the ones that believe he can go home one day, or build himself one, but that’s not who Dean is. Not any more. Not for a long time now. Not since he stopped believing in dad’s comfortable lies. It’s just how things are. Home is the road, as much as anything. Dean’s made peace with that. 


	14. Talk

There’s a difference between being on your own and being lonely, Dean’s aware of that. He’s never been stupid about the things that he does to stave off loneliness, it’s not like he’s desperate for company and most of the time people just get in the way of what he needs to get done at the end of the day. So he’s rolled through towns and walked into bars for a quick hook-up that he could walk away from just as easily, good times had by all.

Sam in the passenger seat means all that pretty much stops. Dean doesn’t stop looking, he’d have to be dead for that to happen, but he isn’t actively trying anymore. Not that that stops people from looking him over with that same casual appraisal that he only started to really appreciate once he began understanding how much mileage he could get out of it. It’s ridiculous how easy it’s always been to find quick connections, to make people trust him, just because he isn’t hard on the eyes.

Sam is enough company, even on the days when he buries his head in a book and doesn’t come up for air to go find food.

Dean’s picked up hitchers in the past who haven’t stopped talking until he expressly asked them to, thinking they were paying for the ride by providing entertainment, or telling their life’s story when there’s a captive audience pinned behind the wheel. Sam doesn’t do that, talk like that, tell stories. Dean kind of wishes he would, sometimes. Just something a little more personal than what he’s been able to get out of the kid so far would be nice, though he’s pretty sure he’s already gotten more than a lot of the people Sam has interacted with.

Sam’s not exactly secretive, it’s not that. It’s more that he seems to habitually play everything close to the vest and that’s not something Dean can fault him for. They’re a lot alike in some ways and there’s a kind of harmony to that, Sam picking up little things faster than most people, learning Dean quickly, again something that he’s probably trained himself to do just to stay alive. It’s like with everything else, the devil’s in the details with Sam.

He likes hunting, Dean can tell. Sam’s in the first flush of it and even if he’s seen how banged up Dean’s gotten just over some simple little job, he’s not scared. That’s the magic. Sam’s really, truly not afraid. Dean wonders if that’s still to some extent Sam humoring him, thinking it’s not real, waiting for the evidence before he makes up his mind, but Dean can’t really fault him for that either. There’s been stuff that Dean wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it himself, no matter what dad and Bobby said.

Sam is sitting Indian style on his bed, book across his lap, when dad calls. Dean thinks about taking the call outside for about half a second, but then it just seems stupid. Sam’s head comes up, eyes locking on Dean and giving him a head tilt in question just as Dean says “hey dad”. Sam’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes go kind of cold and Dean smirks at him knowing Sam’s not the only one who has that reaction to John Winchester. Hell, haft the time he talks to the old man he feels the same way. It’s just a routine check-in though, nothing particularly interesting.

Dad asks if he’s still traveling with “that skinny kid” and Dean says that he is. Dad asks if Dean thinks that’s a good idea and Dean just hums, a noise that doesn’t mean much of anything, leaving dad to draw his own conclusions. It’s not like they don’t all know how everyone feels about it. When he’s hung up Sam puts his book down and turns to face Dean full on.

-What did the colonel want?  
-You overestimate, man, he was a sergeant.  
Sam just looks at him.  
-Checking in, making sure I’m still in one piece.  
-Making sure I haven’t stabbed you in your sleep and taken all your hard-earned money, Sam says but at least his eyes are coming back to life.  
-Probably a little.  
-Figures.  
-Yeah, but …  
-No, Dean, shit. It’s not your problem. Guy’s like him...

These kinds of glimpses are so fucking rare that Dean sits down too, fiddling with his whetstone and keeping his attention on what his hands are doing. Dean’s noticed that it’s sometimes easier to get stuff out of the kid if you’re not looking directly at him.

-Yeah? Dean asks and makes sure to keep his tone abstracted, almost disinterested.  
-One of my fosters was ex-army. Ran his house like fucking boot camp.  
-He who taught you to shoot?  
There’s a long silence and Dean thinks he’s not going to get any more than that.  
-He was strict, Sam says quietly and when Dean glances over he can see Sam almost twitch at the memory of it.  
-A disciplinarian? Dean asks.  
Dean kind of doesn’t want to know, but it wouldn’t matter even if he did because Sam’s done talking.  
  
It’s hard to imagine that kind of deliberate cruelty and Dean can’t really see how Sam would deserve it anyway. He’s a good kid, smart, kind of quiet. Sure, there’s more to him than meets the eye, but he’s still not the kind of kid that would easily earn a beating.

Dean’s learned that Sam has some interesting talents that aren’t strictly speaking on the most legal side. He’s a good pickpocket. He’s really fucking good at picking locks. He’s good at climbing trees. And he’s good at running. That last one is sort of incidental. Actually all of it is incidental, but the running… that’s something they’re going to be doing more of judging from how it calms Sam down and seems to put him in an easy mood. Dean’s not a huge fan of running, but it’s one of those things that he’s gotten used to over the years.

Dad used to make him run drills wherever they wound up until it became a part of his routine, like brushing your teeth. Sam keeps up without much effort after Dean’s bought him a new pair of running shoes. Dean can run in boots if he has to, but there’s no point in making it more painful than necessary, so he equips Sam the same as himself. Shoes, sweats.

Sometimes they go running in the morning, long looping trails spiraling out from where they’re holed up. Sometimes they stop in the middle of the day when they’re four or five hours in to a drive and just really need to burn of some excess energy. Sam has a lot of that now that he’s getting fed on a regular basis and Dean doesn’t mind the exertion. He likes running with Sam. There’s nothing wrong with building more stamina, either. You never know when you might need it.

Dean flirts like breathing, that’s true. It’s just cashing in on his face and his voice, knowing how to angle his head and make the most of everything that good genes and the shallow span of attention of the general populous can get him. Sam is a different kind of social animal. Most of the time it seems he forgets he’s allowed to take up space. He walks with his head half tilted down and his shoulders drawn in, though that gets a little better when Dean finds him a sweet Carhartt hoodie jacket in a second hand store. He’s angular and sharp and seemingly too closed off to bother with the niceties when Dean’s around to do it for him. Then all of a sudden Sam’s shoulders will push back and he’ll straighten up and raise his head and open himself in a way that makes him seem clean and wholesome, American-boy-next-door smile with dimples for the waitresses and librarians and motel managers. He’s fucking stunning like that, confident and wind tousled and relaxed.

It quickly becomes obvious that Dean’s the only one who can tell how well considered it is, and how devastating. Dean’s got his own MO, he’s louder about it, but the two of them together do more damage than Dean thinks even Sam understands at times. They get extra helpings of fries and lowered rates on rooms and handfuls of free printouts and Dean’s not even surprised that Sam is the perfect foil for him, picking up the slack when Dean comes in a little too loud and brash just so Sam can aw-shucks his way to whatever they need.

Girls like Sam. Guys like Sam. Women look at Sam like they want to ruffle his overlong hair and feed him cookies, men look at him like they want to teach him how to calibrate a jeep engine. That’s when they’re not looking at him like they want to take him home and make him do all kinds of dirty, dirty things. Dean’s pretty sure they all think Sam doesn’t see it, but Dean catches the coldly calculating glint in Sam’s eye that measures out his smiles to exactly the right millimeter and then no more to not get into something he doesn’t want. And Sam doesn’t seem to want any of it. Not the girls, not the guys, not the less than subtle invites from women with experience and not the men. He’s got enough offers that Dean thinks he should have taken someone up on something by now, he’s seventeen for god’s sake. Sam ignores him when he says “she thought you were hot”, or “that was one hell of a fox”. He ignores him when Dean point out the less than subtle once-over that a kid with a ring in his eyebrow and a rainbow inked on his messenger bag gives him.

Dean honestly doesn’t know what to do about that.

If it wasn’t for the long showers and the fact that seventeen is the same for everyone Dean would have said Sam’s practicing for priesthood or something. It’s not a topic that’s easy to raise, either, Sam being less than talkative at the best of times about shit he considers private, but Dean’s kind of worried that the problem is worse than just introversion. He’s concerned that Sam’s been damaged in ways that are going to lead to nothing good, and he hates the thought, but it also feels like he kind of needs to know. He won’t back off until Sam tells him point blank to back off, so he’s pushing about as subtly as he can until one night in a fast food joint when Sam just looks at him for a very long moment and then sighs after Dean pointed out that the waitress was cute.

-Would it make you feel better if I got laid? Sam asks and Dean splutters his drink a little, completely unprepared for it.  
-Jesus, kid.   
Sam shrugs.  
-Seems to bother you, he says in an indifferent tone.   
-I don’t want to step on any… I’d say I don’t want to step on any toes, but you do know you’re allowed to have fun, right? Dean says making sure the emphasis on “fun” is just the right side of dirty.   
-Thank you for your concern, but that’s not really my idea of a good time, Sam says with that bland, mild tone that Dean knows means trouble.

And suddenly they’re knee-deep in a conversation that Dean doesn’t really know how to have.

-I have no idea what kind of After School Special is playing in your head right now, Sam says and there’s a measure of dry amusement there.   
-I’m thinking probably the worst kind. Are we having this conversation? Dean asks, just because he’s not sure which one of them wants it less.   
-We might as well. You seem to have something on your mind.   
-Sam. Sammy. Kid. Look, I…   
-No… it’s alright. What do you want to know? Sam says and he’s gentle about it, still looking at Dean with that slightly amused glint in his eyes that says somehow he’s pleased with having rattled Dean.

There are reasons why they need to have this conversation. Some spirits and creatures like damaged goods and it’s not like Dean hasn’t seen that Sam is plenty damaged. Sex is one of the murkier drives anyway and there are so many ways that can get in the way of the work, but it’s more about the kid, the way he carries himself, the kinds of things that Dean’s already seen him do, the things he’s said.

-I think we should have this conversation, but not here, Dean says finally. “And I think that it requires at least a six pack.”   
-Sure thing, big brother, Sam says with another of those shifting amused looks and then he goes right back to inhaling his meatloaf like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.

Dean buys beer and Cheetos and brings it back to the motel, pops one for Sam and one for himself and settles down on his bed with the pillow bunched behind his back and turns the TV on to some mindlessly stupid cooking show just for some distraction. Sam sits down on his own bed and fiddles a little with the bottle, turning it over and over. Dean’s waiting for him and it takes a while, but eventually Sam takes a swig and then clears his throat.

-So. Ask, Sam says quietly.

Dean’s had a little time to think about this now and he’s got the things he wants to say all lined up in his head, the things he wants to explain and the justifications for them. It’s not easy, they’re not usually like this when they talk, and it’s not usually so … premeditated.

-If I really was your brother, all this would be much easier.

Sam looks over at him, surprise plain on his face and something else, something that almost looks wistful.

-How d’you figure? Sam asks.   
-I’d know who the first girl you kissed was. I’d know if you liked guys or if that was just something you had to do. I’d know if I needed to kick someone’s ass for hurting you. I’d know if there was something wrong.   
-That’s what you’re asking? If there’s something wrong?

And that tone, oh, boy, that tone is the flat warning of the rattle of a diamondback in the underbrush. Dean needs to tread carefully here.

-Some things, some creatures, are drawn to that kind of thing, that kind of hurt. I need to know if there’s something I should worry about.   
-And what about you?   
-I’m an open book, you can ask me anything. Hell, I’ll even tell the truth. I’m not looking for a sob story, kid, I’m just asking if I need to be concerned.

Round and round goes the bottle catching the soft light from the bedside lamp on Sam’s side of the room. He’s got his head tilted down and away and Dean can see a muscle in his jaw ticking once, twice. He’s not comfortable with this and Sam’s not comfortable either, but he still needs to know. Bare truth of it is, it’s not entirely altruistic. It’s not all about the things that go bump in the night. He wants to know something real about Sam, something closer to the bone than just what kinds of books he likes and what he likes to eat, which seems to be “all of them” and “everything”.

-Marsha Stevens, Sam says slowly after a long pause.

Dean looks over at him, catches his eyes.

-First girl I kissed, Sam offers with a slight crook of his mouth that could be the beginning of a smile.

Dean knows that for the cop out it is.

-We need to be drunker for this? Dean asks.   
-Not sure that would be helpful. Your turn.   
-Okay, Dean says and rubs his face with one hand, blowing out a hard breath. “First girl… I don’t remember. Lost my cherry when I was fourteen, though. Sally. Sweet, sweet Sally. Two years older and she tasted like strawberry ice cream.”   
-Got you beat, Sam says with something odd in his voice that Dean doesn’t even understand. “Thirteen and a half.”

Dean whistles low in mock-appreciation. Thirteen is hell-a young for that. But Sam doesn’t seem like the kind to talk out of bravado and they’re only half a beer in, so it’s not that either.

-Is this tit-for-tat? Is it my turn? Sam asks and Dean’s smirking reflexively.

Sam’s smart. You have to remember that. You have to remember he could take down John in a conversation he didn’t want to have and Dean’s not the least bit surprised that Sam’s trying to turn this around on him. He’s been traveling with Sam for a while now and he’s been watching the kid so closely he’s beginning to understand that there’s an undercurrent in Sam’s thoughts that runs deeper than he ever shows.

-Go ahead, he says opening himself up to it.   
-You think it’s valid? Substituting sex for any kind of emotional attachment? Sam asks and it’s meant to cut, Dean can tell.   
-Wow. I don’t think I’m that complicated, Dean tells him and now he’s glad he’s only half a beer into the night.   
-It’s one of those things you learn early, Sam says. “I’ve been in group homes. All kinds of lack of attachment there. All kinds of kids with all kinds of problems, looking for love in all the wrong places.”   
-That’s what’s got me worried, Sammy, Dean says and he’s looking at Sam now, trying to maintain eye contact when Sam’s gaze burns into him with that preternatural intensity that he’s seen a few times before, usually directly preceding violence.   
-You worried about your safety, Dean? Sam asks and he’s hitting that dark register that has the wrong kind of effect on Dean.   
-No. Yours.

Sam snorts inelegantly, rolling his eyes. He takes another swig from the bottle he’s mostly just playing with.

-My turn, Dean says. And he’s not as inclined to play nice as he was when he started this, so he makes his own voice slide low and a little dark. “Are you just gay for pay?”

Sam smiles at him, and it’s not friendly, just a showing of teeth that maybe should have a growl behind it.

-I like getting my cock sucked. I don’t necessarily care what’s attached to the mouth on it. What about you, Dean? Three beer queer?

And hearing Sam talk like that is just wrong. He’s too fucking cruel with it, even if his body language hasn’t even tensed.

\- I’d say I’m predominantly straight.   
-Oooh, big word.   
-Vicious little thing, aren’t you? Dean says and he makes sure there’s some appreciation there just to watch Sam’s eyes do that thing again. “I go for guys occasionally. My turn. Were you safe?”

The killing light in Sam’s eyes blinks out like it was never there. He’s suddenly looking bemused.

-I’m not stupid, Dean.   
-I know that. I also know you were in a bad position to take care of yourself sometimes, right? So, were you careful?   
-I’m clean, if that’s what you’re asking.   
-That’s a no. You got yourself tested?   
-Fuck, Sam mutters and sits up a little straighter.

If they were counting coup that would be a point for Dean. Big difference between him and John is that he’s not actually looking to hurt Sam. He’s not looking for something to hold over him, or a reason to get rid of him. He’s not looking to win anything in this and that’s why Sam’s on his back foot.

-You’re right, Sam says and sighs. “That’s pretty much exactly what happened. I got myself tested and I’m fine.”   
-I’ve been there, Dean tells him and that snags Sam’s attention. “Sometimes you get in over your head.”  
-Yeah, Sam agrees.

They’re quiet for a while. Dean finishes his beer and goes to get another. He’s kind of leery about getting drunk around Sam right now, but he wants the mood to be a little more mellow at least, so he brings one more for Sam too, depositing it on his bedside table and sitting back down.

The cooking show has ticked over to something about airplanes.   
There’s some more silence.

-How’s this conversation going, do you think? Sam asks.   
-Could be worse.

The noise Sam makes is a little like a laugh. Not entirely without sarcasm, but that would be out of character as far as Dean can tell. It would be easier, he thinks, if Sam wasn’t so fucking bright.

-You’re not asking whatever the hell it is you wanted to ask. Get to it, Sam tells him quietly.   
-Fine, fair enough. You already know, though, Dean says and leaves it at that.

Sam has to say whatever it is he has to say and Dean can’t bring himself to use the words that keep popping into his head. He’s heard it all before, same as any hunter. Bad things happen to people all the goddamned time. Bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it in the least and that’s the problem.

-I’ve done things that weren’t smart. I’ve been in bad situations. People have tried to do things that I wasn’t okay with. That all comes with being an orphan, being on the streets. You know that. But it was never as bad as all that and it was never as bad as it was for some of the kids I’ve met. I don’t think you’ve got anything to be concerned about, Sam says and it sounds like the truth.

Or some measure of the truth anyway.

-So why are you turning down people left, right and centre? Sam, you’ve got some kind of thing going on and I don’t really understand it.   
-I’m just not interested right now. We’re never in the same town for more than a couple of days and I’m not … I’m kind of not into the whole one-night stand thing at the moment, Sam says and he’s back to hiding his eyes behind his hair.   
-Emotional attachment?

And Sam shifts on the bed like he’s about to get up and walk out. Shit. Dean didn’t mean for that to be a push at all. He’s running the conversation backwards and forwards in his mind, looking for what he missed. He’s about to stop Sam with something inane when Sam visibly settles again and reaches out to exchange his empty bottle for the fresh one Dean put down for him.

-Something like that, Sam says.

That’s when it all clicks into place. Dean’s not been hooking up either, because the loneliness that he’s so used to is actually more or less gone these days with Sam right there next to him. Sam might just feel the same way.

-Okay, so we’ll call this good in a minute. I just want you to know that if you find someone, if you want to stick around for a while, or if you just want to let off steam, say something. Put a sock on the door or whatever, I don’t know. Just …

Dean looks at Sam and Sam is looking back at him, the slow processing of thoughts like a deep river in his eyes. Some treacherous impulse in Dean wants to make this something he can do for Sam and he’s not sure how far he’s willing to take that, but he hasn’t really hit a cut off point yet. He’s thinking too much about those long limbs and smart eyes and messy hair as it is. He would offer if things weren’t so precarious between them already. There are too many uncertainties, too much imbalance and Sam’s walked before for shit that Dean did without thinking it all the way through. It’s not worth it, Dean thinks. He also knows that if Sam makes a move he’d be all for it, wouldn’t even hesitate.

-You’re not doing too badly with the big brother stuff, Sam says unexpectedly.   
-I’m just trying to be a good friend, Sam.   
-Yeah, never really had one of those either.

That? Right there? That’s why Dean won’t take the three steps across to Sam’s bed and push him down on it, kissing that smart mouth just to see what that would be like.

-Can I ask you something? Dean says.   
-Don’t think I could stop you at this point.   
-The disciplinarian. He the one that whipped you?

Sam’s answer actually comes quick and easy this time.

-Yeah. Not the only one, but yeah, he was the worst.   
-Does he still take in kids?   
-No.

Sam looks away, pointedly.

-Good.   
-He’s dead, Sam supplies, tone completely detached.   
-Good, Dean says again and he really means it.

Sam nods, takes another sip from his beer, seems to think it over and then turns back to Dean again.

-So tell me about the kinds of things that are attracted to abuse victims, Sam says and that’s pretty much what Dean spends the next couple of hours doing.

 


	15. Salvage

Weeks go by and there’s nothing much on the radar, just the odd haunting, laying ghosts to rest and trying to stay at the very lowest end of the business. Dean’s still thinking he’s not going to put too much on the kid to start with. He knows he wants to keep Sam with him for a while longer, and he knows he needs to do something for him that leaves him in better shape than he found him. It’s about time to introduce Sam to Bobby. Dean’s due a visit anyway.  
  
Bobby’s always been a fixed point for Dean. There were a couple of years when Bobby and John had a really bad falling out and weren’t even speaking back when Dean was too young to make the trip himself, but Bobby’s always made sure Dean had his phone number and knew he could call if he found himself in too deep.  
  
Dean goes about the whole thing very differently this time. He explains Bobby to Sam in a way that he didn’t know to do with dad. He tells Sam where they’re going and why. He tells him about the salvage yard and the dogs and the fact that Bobby almost always comes across as a crotchety old grouch, but you really shouldn’t let that fool you. Bobby’s a genius in his own right and he’s the kind of guy that will give you enough rope to hang yourself with and gleefully watch you do it. He’s not mean, though. There’s not a mean bone in Bobby’s body. Sam listens and looks at maps and seems to think the whole thing over carefully.

-So, Bobby and your dad go way back. He’s part of some kind of network?  
-Not really. Most hunters are way too paranoid for that. Bobby just knows stuff and he’s good at lending a hand.  
-Okay. And he’s a friend of your father’s? Sam asks more pointedly.   
-They know each other. They’ve known each other for a long time, but they’re not always … on friendly terms.   
-You mean your dad pissed him off?

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s trying to figure out why Sam seems spooked by that. Or, maybe not exactly spooked, but definitely uneasy.

-You said he’s probably going to test me, Sam says.   
-He’s going to offer you a root beer when you walk in the door. Take it. He’s got more protection set up than anyone I know, so if you can walk onto his property, into his house, past his dogs and drink his beer, you’re good.

Sam nods and then goes thoughtful, hours of quiet stretching out with nothing but the radio to distract Dean.

The gates are open and the dogs are chained when they get to the salvage yard. Dean knows it doesn’t look like much in the harsh light of day, but that’s sort of the point. To the locals Singer Salvage is just one of those quirky eyesores run by the town drunk that are more or less a part of the backdrop of real life in a small town. No one sees the work gone into making it look the way it does, Bobby hiding in plain sight.

Bobby Singer is kind of hard to describe, or explain. You have to meet the guy to get what he’s all about. Dean’s told Sam that, but Sam doesn’t seem too charmed by the whole idea so far. With the rusted out old carcasses of cars and trucks everywhere and the distant baying of hounds Dean figures that’s probably understandable.

Bobby’s out on the porch by the time Dean kills the engine. One of the dogs is lying on the hood of a big truck Dean hasn’t seen before and Sam is looking around like he’s hearing Deliverance music. Dean just grins at him. Sam is going to like Bobby and Bobby is going to love Sam.

Sam trails after Dean up to the porch steps and stands back while Bobby and Dean exchange greetings and “how’ve you beens”. Dean looks over his shoulder and nods at Sam to come on up. He still doesn’t really know what name Sam goes by, so he just says “this is Sam” and watches as Sam and Bobby shake hands. Bobby nods and tells them to come on in, so they go.

There are sigils in the doorjambs and Key of Solomon traps on the ceiling and all manner of silver, salt and iron laid down all over the place. Dean wasn’t kidding when he told Sam that half the job with Bobby is walking into his house in the first place. He smiles when Bobby offers them sodas and he knows it never mattered that the tops aren’t even popped, there’s still holy water in there. Sam is smart about that too, maintains eye contact with Bobby while he drinks, even if he’s more tense than he should be.

-You staying the night? Bobby asks, which means they’re staying the night. It’s only a question in the broadest sense of the term.   
-If you’ll have us, Dean answers without even looking over at Sam.

Bobby gives him a short little smile and a dip of the head that hides his eyes beneath the rim of his trucker cap for a second.

-I’ve got chili cooking, Bobby says in reply and tells Dean to get them set up in the guest room.

It’s a very different process with Bobby, the whole “getting to know you” business. He’s not one to pry and that’s going to make all the difference. Sam’s reticence isn’t going to read as anything other than what it is and Bobby’s been around enough hunters to know it’s not personal and it’s not a problem. His house, his rules, sure, but he’s not a bastard about it and that’s why Dean isn’t worried.

Sam is unfailingly polite through the whole first day. He’s doing that careful sensing out of where the limits are, what the particular rules are. Dean’s watching him, same as always, and he’s amused by the way Sam slowly works himself into Bobby’s good graces. It’s little things, like offering to do the dishes since Bobby cooked and asking if it’s alright if he has a look around Bobby’s sort of makeshift library. Bobby is taking Sam’s measure too, in his own methodical way. He asks how they came to travel together and doesn’t try to dig deeper when Sam tells an abbreviated version of the bogey-at-the-skate-park thing, only asking about the creature itself and not what the hell Sam was doing there in the first place.

Dean lets them feel each other out the way they need to. He’s not going to get in the middle of that like he did with John, mostly because it isn’t necessary. He’s told Bobby a little about Sam already and about how it all went down, so he sticks to padding some of Sam’s answers and then goes to fetch them all a beer once they’re settled down in Bobby’s library/living room/office.

He’s about to step back in the room when he hears Sam asking: “Oneriomancy, what do you know about it?”

It catches him off guard enough that he stops mid-step waiting for Bobby’s answer.

-Might have something. Why d’you ask? Bobby answers without censure.   
-Curiosity, Sam tells him in that perfectly neutral tone that goes so well with his blank poker face.   
-Idle curiosity? Bobby shoots back, playing the same kind of well covered game that Dean knows opens hunters and witnesses like a lock. Not Sam, though. Of course not.   
-Curiosity is never entirely idle, Sam tells him and Dean can sense the amusement there.   
-Ain’t that the truth, Bobby shoots back and Dean knows, just from the tone, that he was right, Bobby already likes the kid.

Dean isn’t going to stand in the hallway like an idiot with the beer bottles sweating in his hands so he ambles back in and distributes one beer in reach on Bobby’s desk before handing one off to Sam and then settling himself in Bobby’s decrepit recliner. The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly and that’s all he’s asking for.

-Kid wants to know about dreams, Bobby tells Dean.

Dean shoots a glance at Sam who is gazing at the overstocked bookshelves with something like yearning in his eyes.

-Yeah? Dean asks and Sam’s gaze ticks over to him.

Sam shrugs in that all-purpose way that means everything and nothing. Mostly it means Dean’s not going to get more out of him.

-Also, Dean says directing his attention back to Bobby, “don’t call him kid. He doesn’t like that”.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and Bobby scowls for a second before breaking out into a little grin.

-Son, I can call you two whippersnappers whatever the hell I please.

Dean laughs and Sam’s gaze goes back and forth between them a few times until he figures out that there’s some kind of inside joke going on and then the slight tension that built up in his shoulders eases again. Bobby’s been calling Dean “kid” and “son” and … yes, whippersnapper and boy and a hell of a lot besides since he first met the man. Dean doesn’t mind it from Bobby. Bobby’s family. Dean just put that out there so Sam will know not to take it the wrong way when Bobby invariably slips and does the same to him.

Dean realizes he didn’t even know how nervous he was about this meeting until the last of the tension drains away as Bobby gets up out of his chair to pull down a few of tomes that look like they’ll keep Sam busy for at least a couple of days. That’s good, that will give him time with the car. Bobby’s set-up is not just for show, he can really work on her here, do maintenance and oil changes. Look at the transmission that’s been a little less responsive than he likes lately.

Bobby’s guest room is going to be tight quarters, but Dean figures that will be fine. He wants to think Sam’s less nervous about sharing now that it’s been a while and they’re in someone else’s house here, so Sam will be unfailingly polite. Unfamiliar territory, unfamiliar patriarch. Dean knows how that goes by now. Sam’s going to be taking his cues from Dean right up to the point where he sets Bobby up for some kind of test, which he will no doubt do when Dean’s not around. He needs to have a word about that with Bobby actually before they settle in for the night.

He offers Sam first shower, shows him the bathroom and warns him about the sometimes temperamental boiler and goes in search of the old man when he hears the rattle of the pipes. Bobby’s still sitting behind his desk. He’s got a thoughtful look on his face and one of the dogs, Spike from what Dean can see, is resting its huge head slobbering gently on Bobby’s knee.

-Hey, old man, Dean says and takes the chair across from the desk.

Bobby looks up at him with a reluctant smile.

-Brat.

The dog thumps his tail twice and settles back down.

-Kid’s troubled, Bobby says without preamble.   
-I know.   
-Did you know about the dreams?   
-Hard not to. He wakes himself. Not every time, though.

Bobby nods. Could be nightmares. Could be nothing but ordinary garden variety nightmares. Could be nothing more than the payment for a long life of living with no safety net. Could be something else. Worse.

-Not why we’re talking right now, though, Bobby says hitting it right on the head as always.   
-Kid’s troubled, yeah. Kid’s really fucking smart too. Like way above my pay grade, so he’s going to come at you. Just to be sure you can be trusted.   
-That must have gone down well with your pa.   
-Like a lead balloon. Not going to be on anyone’s Christmas card list for that move.

There’s something about Bobby’s expression that bothers Dean. He’s looking troubled in a way that’s not really appropriate for the conversation they’re having.

-You looked into it like I asked? Dean says thinking back to that phone call he had made when he first stumbled over Sam.   
-I did. Records are for shit and nothing if not contradictory. The brains are all there on paper but nothing much else that I could make head nor tails of. There’s some talk about nightmares and violence and trauma. I didn’t like what I read. I don’t like what it might mean.

Dean smiles at him. Bobby means that in all the ways he could mean it. It could be just bad practice and sloppy work from whatever case workers were involved and it might mean that Sam’s damaged to the point where he’s potentially dangerous. And Dean just warned Bobby, for Christ’s sake. But that’s not all that he’s getting from Bobby at the moment and that’s what has him a little bothered.

-You’re seeing something I’m not? Dean asks and he is listening now with all the respect he has for Bobby as a hunter, as an elder.

Bobby shakes his head slowly. He pets Spike, fingers running over the dogs shoulder in a mindless caress. The dog leans more heavily into it and pants happily.

-You know, John called me, Bobby says after a moment’s consideration. “Right after that thing with the mausoleum. Asked me to look into the kid.”  
-We need to work on our communication.   
-Nothing new there. He was concerned.   
-No, he was pissed. Kid ran circles around him and that was after John tried to come down on him like the thunder of God.   
-That would be it. But he was worried ‘cause you’re so taken with the boy. I see it too.   
-Bobby…  
-Don’t insult my intelligence, Bobby snaps before he gets anywhere with that. “I know you. You’re taking him on like … like with Spike when he was a puppy. Broken leg and all.”

Dog’s a fucking prop. Dean should have known. And it’s lucky Bobby’s never seen Sam with a knife in his hand or this conversation would be a lot more awkward all around.

-Spike cut his puppy teeth on me too, remember? Dean says instead.

At the mention of his name the dog shifts away from Bobby’s hands and gets up, coming over to sit down imperiously on Dean’s feet demanding attention. Dean grants it with the same fond exasperation as always, rubbing hard against the grain around the dog’s thickly muscled neck. There’s probably a little bulldog somewhere in him, that’s how Dean came up with the name in the first place. The dog loves him. More than anything that’s making Dean’s point for him. Spike used to bite and growl and posture. He still does with pretty much everyone except Dean. Great junk yard guard dog. Loyal to a fault.

-People ain’t dogs, Bobby says and there is something more to this.   
-What aren’t you telling me, old man? Dean asks and his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

For some reason that has Bobby flustered, trying to find something to do with his hands, somewhere to look that isn’t in Dean’s direction. Dean’s honestly intrigued now because Bobby is good at keeping all his tells under control and for some reason he’s just not able to right now.

-If it comes to it I’ll let the kid take my measure, he says finally. “All I ask is that you be careful.”   
-Always am, Dean says and he knows Bobby’s got a running tally in his head of all the times he hasn’t been the least bit careful at all and has gotten hurt because of it, but it’s on Dean if something happens with Sam and that’s the way he wants it. Getting the feeling that Bobby and John actually agree about Sam isn’t at all pleasant, but Dean is good at being patient and he knows Bobby isn’t going to hold on to something that might end up being dangerous for him not to know. With a smile and a last pat to Spike’s side Dean gets up just as the water cuts off above them


	16. Dreams

There’s always work to be done around the salvage yard. On the days when it’s open for business there are customers looking for a clutch disc for ten bucks or trying to sell an old clunker. It’s kind of funny to watch Bobby act like some harmless redneck when Dean knows he can put down pretty much anything supernatural and insult it in Japanese while he’s doing it. Bobby’s got the best kind of camouflage there is. He’s sarcastic and curmudgeonly and smarter by far than anyone ever gives him credit for at first glance.

Dean helps out. He’s called Bobby “uncle” since he was a little kid and that’s all it ever took, really, around here. To the locals he’s connected to Bobby’s family in some way that no one’s ever really asked about and they know him as a decent mechanic but a bit of a good-for-nothing. Over the years Dean’s been holed up at Bobby’s when he’s been sick and injured enough that he wasn’t really all that surprised when the gossip got back to him describing him as “a little slow”. That made Bobby laugh until he almost fell over.

-That time with the naiads? Underwater, you lost your hearing for a while, Bobby told him. “I think that’s what clinched it.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh at that himself, because yeah, he’d been walking around hearing everything kind of under-water-muffled for a good long while there and it made him look like short bus material. He couldn’t really respond to people in real time because it took him a while to figure out what the hell they were actually saying.

-That and your pretty face, Bobby had told him, still intolerably entertained by the whole thing. “Makes all the ladies want to coo at you and talk real slow so you understand what a precious little snowflake you are.”  
-Get’s me free pie, Dean had told him agreeably.

So, there’s always work to be done around the place and if Dean’s not in a mood to be sociable he can just sort of grunt at people or smile stupidly and that’s about what’s expected of him when it comes to the human interaction part. Bobby thinks it’s amusing. Dean thinks it’s kind of relaxing.

Now, though, he’s got the genius kid sitting out on the porch with a book that looks like it could brain a werewolf with one good solid clobber. Sam is half checking the surroundings, half trying to get a better read on his and Bobby’s dynamic in-between absorbing what looks like massive amounts of text. Bobby doesn’t know the kid well enough to put him to work yet, but he will the minute he realizes Sam’s smarts aren’t just decorative. Dean’s banking on that. He meant it when he thought about setting Sam up with some basic connections, some references and some alternative safe harbors. He’s hoping Bobby will be one of them.

Dean’s put the Impala in one of the bays out back where she won’t be spotted by some casual passerby. He’s got friends that are hunters but he’s got people he tries to stay away from too. And he thinks he’d really rather not get Sam mixed up in any of that if he can avoid it. Bobby is very political about who he does business with when it comes to hunters. He’s smart enough to know that no matter what they’re a violent, bad-tempered bunch even on a good day so he’s always careful. You certainly don’t want to end up on Bobby’s shit list. He’s got a long memory and he’s always owed more favors than he grants.

Right now, though, Dean’s working on a pretty disgusting old rust-bucket of a Ford. It’s a square-shouldered workhorse of a truck, the sturdy kind of pickup mostly put to work by farmers or ranchers. The panels need replacing but the engine’s been kept in pretty good shape. From what Bobby’s told him this particular piece of work is being traded for firewood and half an elk, come hunting season. He puts the work in and Bobby will make one hell of a stew for them some day.

It feels good, this kind of simple work. It makes his muscles ache in that pleasantly worked-through way and it’s honest, for any given measure of that word. Dean also knows the barter is probably more about the fact that the owner doesn’t really have the ready cash to pay Bobby up front and that’s the way a small town like this operates on a good day. Bobby will trade with those he trusts to be good for it and those who deserve it. It’s just simple math, really, the same way he trades information and favors with hunters.

Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. He watches the way all three of Bobby’s current dogs come over and investigate and decide whether they like Sam or not. They all do. Sam doesn’t seem bothered by it. He lets the dogs approach and investigate in their own time and doesn’t make any overtures unless he’s expressly invited to, like when Spike pushes his head in between Sam’s hands and the book on his lap. Clever. But, then, Dean already knew that.

Bobby calls them in for lunch just after one and they eat bacon and egg sandwiches and drink ice tea.

-Anything of interest in that tome of yours? Dean asks indicating the book Sam’s put aside to not risk staining it.   
-Don’t know yet, Sam says between bites.   
-You read some about dreams already? Bobby asks.   
-Jungian and Freudian theories. Some of the more alternative ideas. All complete nonsense from what I can tell. Not much that pertains to the kind of questions I have. It’s hard to find any reliable source material. Most of it seems like inexcusably puerile wish fulfillment, Sam says and his voice is cold.

Dean and Bobby exchange a glance and Bobby’s eyebrows go up. “Puerile”, he mouths behind Sam’s back and Dean shrugs. Dean grins, but feels a little uncomfortable about Sam’s tone.

-It’d probably help if I knew exactly what you were looking to find, Bobby tells Sam.

Sam looks up at him and there’s a level of scrutiny to his gaze that Dean knows exactly what it feels like being on the receiving end of. Bobby weathers it well. He’s good at being opaque when he wants to be.

-I have enough to go on with for now. Thanks, Sam says.

Bobby reads that just as well as Dean does. End of discussion. Full stop. Sam is polite and he’s not going to alienate the host or cause trouble, but he’s not going to talk about whatever this is until he’s good and ready.

When they’ve finished lunch and Sam’s gone to wash his hands leaving Bobby and Dean with the dishes, Bobby settles comfortably by Dean’s side drying the plates before putting them away. They must have stood like this a thousand times.

-Kid’s not a big talker, but he does know some twenty dollar words, Bobby says with a small grin.

Dean just gives him the kind of look that tells Bobby he already knew Sam was smart. Dean’s been trying to make him understand that that’s not just bragging, or posturing, or whatever the hell Bobby thought that was. Sam’s the kind of smart that doesn’t just come from books, but from living on your wits, and that’s a completely different school of thought.

-Takes a while, Dean says instead.   
-For him to be all friendly and open? I had that figured.   
-It’s not about you. Not specifically. He’s … uh. He’s been burnt.  
-No shit. Did you know he was interested in dreams?   
-Oneriomancy, Bobby. I don’t know. I’ll give good money it’s not about the dreams. Not with a choice of word like that.

Bobby takes the last plate out of Dean’s hands and dries it, puts it away and then hangs towel over the back of a chair. Dean’s draining the water and wiping down the counter, all the while feeling Bobby’s eyes on him as he works. Bobby’s got something to say and he’s just waiting for Dean to make eye contact so he can say it. Dean figures he might as well get it over with and turns around, wiping his hands on his shirt.

-If this turns out to be something, Bobby says, inflection going heavy on the something, “are you ready for that?”  
-Yeah, I am, Dean says without a trace of doubt.   
-Why? Bobby asks and the way his face arranges itself into something between disbelief and worry is not Dean’s favorite expression.

Dean shrugs, breathes out a heavy breath and rubs tiredly at his brow. He couldn’t explain this to his father. He couldn’t explain it to Sam, or, hell, even to himself. He just knows this kid matters. Sam’s never had anyone in his corner before, or if he has, then they sure haven’t been there for long. He gets that Bobby doesn’t understand it, because he doesn’t all the way understand it himself and he can’t make the words that would put it all in perspective just line up un his head into some clear-cut neat explanation without trying to sum up everything he’s been through his whole life and everything that he thinks Sam’s been through too.   
  
-Do you think there’s anyone, anywhere, who’d be better if it turns out to be _something_? Dean asks instead.   
-No, Bobby says after a long moments consideration.

Bobby doesn’t say “this could be trouble”, or “I don’t like it”, or “he must have somewhere else to go”. And that’s why Dean knows this is the best place for them to be right now. At least for a little while.

-Go on then, Bobby says. “Ford ain’t gonna fix itself.”

So Dean goes.

The job’s mostly done later that afternoon and Dean’s tired and sweaty and looking forward to a nice, long cool shower when he ambles back into the house with Rummy tagging along behind him wagging his stumpy tail end. They’re about due a trip into town to hit the biggest grocery store just to stock Bobby with beer and bread and peanut butter. He thinks he’ll ask Sam about that, they can go tomorrow. Figures they’ll buy some staples and maybe some treats for the dogs, see what they can do about Sam’s sock situation, because that’s getting ridiculous. He doesn’t even make it to the stairs before Bobby is on him, calling him from the mostly neglected office at the back of the house.

-Truck’s almost done, Dean says before he gets a good look at Bobby’s face.   
-I could give a fuck about the goddamned truck. Did you take that boy hunting?

Dean stands there for a full five seconds, no idea what the hell is going on.

-I asked you a question, Bobby all but snarls and Dean’s been feeling a little muzzy from the heat and the itch of sweating in the sun all day, but he snaps to when he sees the look in Bobby’s eyes. Bobby’s livid.  
-Yes, I did, Dean tells him calmly.   
-What the hell were you thinking?

Dean really should have seen this coming.

-What did Sam tell you? Dean asks and he’s keeping his tone as non-confrontational as he can.   
-That you’ve been taking him on hunts. What the hell were you thinking? You don’t bring some wet-behind-the-ears kid with you on hunts. Haven’t we taught you better than that?

Dean can’t help it, he’s struck all over again by how much he likes the fucking kid. Even when he’s being a pain in the ass. He leans casually up against the corner of the overflowing desk and looks Bobby up and down, taking in how pissed Bobby is and thinking about how all this must have come about.

-How did that come up in conversation, exactly? Dean asks.   
-What do you mean?   
-Bobby, think about it for a second. How did it come up in conversation that I took Sam with me on a few hunts?

It does Bobby credit that he is one of those guys that Dean can say something like that to and have it mean that Bobby will play the conversation back in his head and actually think about it before exploding in Dean’s face again. Things didn’t go so well with John because he’s got a much lower threshold for that kind of thing. Bobby works it out, though, and quicker than Dean expected.

-Well, shoot, Bobby says after another minute.   
-I told you he would come at you.   
-Well, I didn’t expect some snot nosed seventeen year old punk to outflank me, now, did I?   
-It would seem not. I’m going to hit the shower. Think about putting together a grocery list for tomorrow, okay?

Dean nods once and leaves Bobby still looking a little bewildered, but also kind of reluctantly impressed. He still needs a shower pretty badly and he knows Sam would have heard Bobby’s voice raised in anger, so now all he has to do is figure out the other half of this before he goes to talk to the kid. And he does some of his best thinking in the shower anyway.

Sam’s sitting on his bed in the guest room with a book propped up on his knees when Dean walks in twenty minutes later, showered and changed and pretty sure he’s figured out some of what that was about. Sam looks up, giving him an evaluating kind of glance and not even pretending to read as Dean sits down on the other bed.

They look at each other for a pretty long moment.

-It’s not a good feeling, is it? Sam says. “Having people talk about you behind your back”.   
-No. No, it isn’t.

Sam puts the book down and straightens himself out until he’s mirroring Dean, hands clasped and eyes calm.

-I understand that you have to … play intermediary. Be my… what? My calling card? Something like that? And I don’t give a shit about the little things, the stuff that’s public record. Fine. But you said “us”, Dean. You said you’re my friend.   
-I get it.   
-Do you really? Sam asks with a level of intensity that Dean should have expected, but he’s never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed.

He did, though, he did say all those things and he’s sure he meant them too. He hasn’t really had the time to think about what that means for Sam. He’s thought about all that as something he could do for the kid, prove to the kid, but that’s all wrong when he’s not putting his money where his mouth is. He thought Sam would go after Bobby to see where his loyalties lie, but he should have predicted this. He should have seen that Sam would test his loyalties too, should have known how much more that’s going to matter in the long run.

-Don’t talk about me, about the things that concern me, when I’m not in the room. That’s all I’m asking. It never goes well for me, Sam says and he’s so sincere, so earnest that Dean knows he’s going to have work to be precise and clear about this.   
-Bobby is a very old friend of mine. I didn’t think about it like that.   
-I know you didn’t mean any harm. But you’re the one who said we’re friends, Dean.   
-I hear you, Dean tells him.

Dean finally does get it, what that means to Sam.

-It won’t happen again, he promises.   
-Thank you, Sam says and turns back to his book like Dean didn’t just vow it’s going to be the two of them against the world. Jesus.

Dean’s in over his head, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

 


	17. Something

-You’ve been plowing through Bobby’s books like there’s no tomorrow. You ready to tell me what that’s all about yet? Dean asks.

They’re on their way back from the store with what feels like half of it in bags in the back. Poor Baby, reduced to a pack mule. Sam’s slouching in the shotgun seat with a coffee cup resting idly on his knee. Sam spares him a side glance and then looks back out the window.

-Not yet.   
-But you will at some point?   
-I might.

Fair enough. Sam’s doing research and correlating ideas and trying to find cohesive information about what ever it is that he’s trying to find information on.

-You know, Bobby is very good at research, Dean tells Sam and he hears the coaxing note to his own voice.   
-So I’ve gathered.   
-He could probably help you.   
-Dean…   
-I’m just saying.   
-Dean… I. When. When I’m ready. Okay?

Dean nods. He can’t really do much more than that. So what if he’s spent some time with the books himself trying to figure out what it is that they could help the kid figure out? Dean told Bobby that he’s the best choice Sam has if this all turns out to be _something_. He hopes he’s right about that. It’s not anything as simple as a Mara or a dream hunter or anything else that could sneak in and fuck with Sam while he’s sleeping. This is somehow about the actual dreams Sam is having and he’s not talking about that.

Dean hears him. He has been hearing him since that first night. He just thought it was regular nightmares, the usual stress induced kind that you get after traumatic events. He’s still not sure what it is that means there’s more to it than that, but there’s something about the intensity of them when Sam wakes himself with a strangled gasp that makes Dean wake up feeling uncomfortable and on edge. He’s even reached for a weapon once or twice.

Staying at Bobby’s is kind of a mixed blessing because there’s hardly any space between their beds. Less than in most motel rooms, even. He can hear Sam saying “no” in his sleep. Sometimes it’s imploring, a kind of whispered denial and refusal and sometimes he sounds angry and commanding. It makes Dean want to ask what the hell Sam is dreaming about, but Sam already told him he doesn’t want to talk about it. Sam seems okay in the daytime, though, and there’s not even a stirring in the dream catchers Bobby’s got strung up, so it’s not something Dean can battle.

That means there’s something going on with Sam that Dean can’t see, and that’s actually not helpful at all when it comes to Dean’s peace of mind. Or his blood pressure.

-I didn’t know you’re a mechanic, Sam says seemingly out of the blue.   
Conversation changer. Well, okay then.   
-I know enough to be able to help Bobby out when I come here. Sing for my supper that way.

Sam casts a glance at the stuff in the backseat. Okay, so Dean actually does a little more than that these days.

-I’ve come here pretty banged up a couple of times, and it helped then. Gets me out of the house. Bobby needs extra hands. I don’t like being a freeloader any more than you do.   
-Still waiting for him to put me to work, actually. More than doing the dishes anyway.   
-Well, offer. He’ll take help with research, for sure. I don’t know how much, but once your pet project calms down I’m sure there’s something. There usually is.   
-I’ll keep that in mind.

Oh, and the other thing about being at Bobby’s is that Dean has to be careful about what goes on between the two of them, not that there’s anything going on. It’s just that Bobby sees something there and John saw something and there’s the whole thing where he and Sam kind of flirt, or, no, it’s not even that. They play off each other and they feed into the energy between them with something that becomes a little too charged at times. It’s not overt, it’s not sexual, but there is definitely a kind of physicality to the way they are around each other. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, the way Sam stands close enough that Dean can feel his body heat even if he’s technically not touching. It’s kind of hard to explain.

When they spar, or run, or shoot, or just train together there’s something almost palpable to the way they are around each other, a kind spatial awareness that Dean still finds a little too easy. And he knows they watch each other, hold eye contact for longer than he thinks would be comfortable with anyone else. It doesn’t read like they’re fucking, he knows, but it doesn’t read like anything he can explain either. Not friends, not lovers, not colleagues. Dean figures the thing that both Bobby and John picked up on is that awareness and the way it won’t just settle into something easily quantifiable.

Sam’s pretty mercurial about his personal space. He has absolutely no problems what so ever getting in Dean’s face when they’re play fighting, or when he has a weapon in his hands. He’s got no reservation about putting a knee between Dean’s thighs to get the leverage to push him off from a grapple hold and he doesn’t even blink when Dean grabs his hips to stop him from slithering away. Dean just has to be careful about other things, like coming up behind him when Sam’s engrossed in his reading, or putting hands on him when he’s still half asleep. It’s getting easier, though. Sam’s getting better at not reading Dean’s presence as something he has to worry about, for what that’s worth.

And it’s not like Dean’s all that good about being woken up by someone shaking him, so he can’t complain. He’s getting better at recognizing Sam too, knowing it’s Sam in the room with him when he’s half asleep and still a little groggy means he doesn’t startle awake every time Sam shifts on his bed.

Another thing Dean’s getting used to, and something he’s actually starting to appreciate, is having Sam at his back. That cold spot over his shoulder is suddenly taken up with six foot something of lanky, and he kind of likes it. He’s out in front just enough that he can take action first, but Sam is guarding that dead angle where his good arm won’t go fast enough and it’s just another of those things that Dean can’t put words to, something that makes too much sense.

-You said puerile, Dean says when they’re halfway back.

He can’t seem to let it rest, even when Sam’s not really communicative about the whole thing. Sam gives him a look. If this was one of Dean’s other friends, or maybe acquaintances would be the more correct word, that look would be followed by a jibe about his lack of education.

-If I wanted symbolism I’d read poetry, Sam says laconically.   
-You read poetry? You big girl.   
-Oh, Dean, don’t instigate battle when you’re outgunned and outmanned.   
-What’s that supposed to mean?   
-Tell me what, exactly, you think the big difference is between reading poetry and learning the rhymed, versed and simile heavy lyrics of every song ever written by Led Zeppelin by heart is and you might have a leg to stand on.   
-Hey, no. No harping on The Zep. That is definitely not okay.   
-Not harping. Just saying it’s the same thing. Just set to music, is all.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard it put quite like that before, but he’ll give the kid a point. And Sam’s trying to get him off track, again.

-So, symbolism… Dean says slowly.

Sam sighs. Dean figures if they weren’t in a moving vehicle this is one of those times when Sam would just have gotten up and calmly left the room.

-Dream interpretation. No matter what school of thought, it all seems to come down to what you interpret certain symbols as. Whether you believe those things to be universal or not, whether you think dreams of flying are always about sex and spindles always mean you fear your mother’s going to burn the house down, I don’t know.

Dean flinches. He can’t help it. It’s not something that shows outwardly, more like a ripple in his skin, like a horse stung by a fly. Sam isn’t even looking at him now so he doesn’t notice.

-That’s not what your looking for? Dean asks.   
-No.

Sam falls silent again and he seems to be far, far away in his thoughts.

-Sam. Hey. Kid?   
-Hmm? What?   
-Look I know you’re not ready to talk about it, but what we can do is talk out theory. We’ve done that with pretty much everything from ghosts to werewolves. Come on.

Sam takes a moment to consider that and then he nods slowly.

-Okay. Okay, so… Sam starts and seems to gather himself up. “Dreaming and dream interpretation all connects to the subconscious, right? Or what popular theory understands to be the subconscious. And there are ideas about lucid dreaming, which basically boils down to implementing various techniques to learn to control your dreams. Seems appealing, right? Especially if you’re prone to nightmares.”  
-With you so far, Dean tells him. “You could change events, take charge, get yourself out of trouble. I can see the appeal.”  
-Yeah, so can I. Night terrors, they’re not nightmares, though. They’re a whole different animal.

Sam stops talking and then looks at Dean with a serious, intense look on his face.

-Stop the car for a minute, Sam says.

Dean doesn’t even think about it, he just checks the road and then pulls over at the first convenient spot he can find. Sam climbs out and stalks around to the back of the car, so Dean gets out and joins him. He’s sitting on the trunk, the little hoodlum and Dean sighs and then scoots up next to him. Ass prints in the wax. He hopes Sam doesn’t have his knife in his back pocket.

-There’s a reason why I’m trying to figure out this whole dream thing, Dean, Sam says and he’s got his shoulders pulled up tight, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket and face turned three quarters away.

Dean wants to snap at him that he knows that, he already figured that part out. That’s why they’re having this goddamned conversation in the first place.

-But you have to understand, before I met you, before I knew that there even were guys like you, like Bobby and your dad… I thought I was insane.

Dean’s gaze snaps to Sam now, his whole body angling towards Sam’s. And Sam is still sitting hunched over like a scarecrow, his hair in his eyes and his posture screaming tension.

-Why? Dean asks slowly.   
-Because of the dreams. Because of the things I dream about. I was… I was at the point where I spent more time in the library trying to find a diagnosis that fit than actually doing anything useful. Librarian thought I wanted to be a shrink. I was just trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.

There’s a spot in Dean’s chest that feels like he swallowed wrong, like he’s got a lump of coal slowly smoldering through the bone there. Jesus. The hits just keep on coming, don’t they? Not only is Sam homeless, friendless, orphaned and broke as fuck, he’s got this shit to deal with too. And he’s been doing it all alone.

-We’ll figure it out, Dean tells him.

What the hell else is he going to say at this point? Sam looks at him and he doesn’t believe it, Dean can tell, but he wants to. Oh, lord, does he want to, judging from how he looks sitting there all folded in on himself like some helpless wretch. Dean leans in a little and knocks their shoulders together.

-Hey, we will. We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this anymore. And you’re not crazy. Or, you know, no more than the rest of us.   
-That’s not saying much, company I’m keeping these days, Sam says and returns the pressure.   
-I know. But we do this kind of crazy really well.

Dean is good at what he does. And he’s starting to know the kid a little better, which means they get back in the car and he blasts Zeppelin all the way back to Bobby’s and very deliberately doesn’t talk about it anymore. Instead he makes fun of Sam for being a poetry lover and lets Sam get back at him with jibes about the box of tapes with “hair metal” he keeps in the footwell. He makes a crack about the driver choosing the music and Sam plays along.

That’s what it is, though. Playing along. Sam’s not stupid, he knows Dean has put together more from that conversation than they’re acknowledging right now. It’s just easier this way.

Dean puts nightmares, night terrors, fear of insanity and Sam’s mainlining coffee and borderline insomnia together with the comments he made about “nightmare fodder” and oneriomancy and comes up with the conclusion that Sam might actually be a little more suited for the life than he thought when he still thought Sam was just another bright as a button kid born on the wrong side of the tracks. Nothing’s after Sam, nothing’s feeding off him, or haunting him.

The simple, logical conclusion is that Sam’s probably got a little a little mojo going on. Sam’s questionable heritage could be responsible for that, they don’t know where he’s from, who his family is. Might be witches in there, a bokor, something. Could be that they gave Sam up because of it, or that they hoped to spare him from something. Dean doesn’t want to think too much about it, because it still pisses him off, but at least there would be a reason then, if that was why someone would just give up on a kid like Sam. There’s no point in trying to follow that lead, though. He’s one hundred percent certain that if there was any way of getting that information, Sam would have already.

Dean doesn’t even want to think about what dad would make of all this.

Sam deals with it. Sam has been dealing with it for a long time from what Dean can tell. If his file is anything like even vaguely accurate Sam has probably always been like this, which means he was born that way. Dean can’t even begin to imagine how fucking scary that must have been when he was a little kid. He understands why Sam needs to keep this very private. Dean can just imagine what would have happened if he had started talking about witches and werewolves being real when he was in school. For Sam, talking about his dreams was probably like that.

Later that night, after a meal of Bobby’s homemade hamburger helper, Dean goes into Bobby’s library and ferrets out a couple of books that have nothing to do with dreams. When he hands them over to Sam he gets a wild wide-eyed look in return and watches as Sam processes what he’s looking at and then starts trembling just a little.

-Don’t tell your dad, Sam says.   
-I’m not telling anyone anything.   
-Not even Bobby?   
-Like I said, we’ll figure it out. You and me.

Sam puts the books down and nods a few times. He still looks stressed and shaky and so goddamned unsure. Dean hopes he can make that better. 


	18. Approval

Dean gets a call from John about some research he wants help with. Dean takes down all the particulars and tells dad he’ll call back as soon as he has something. When he’s put his phone back in his pocket he looks over at Bobby, flashes him a wicked grin and then holds out the slip of paper to Sam.

Sam just looks at him.

-What? Are you telling me you don’t want to? Dean asks.

Sam’s smile is a slow dawning thing. It carries a storm portent and a few blades in it and Dean fucking loves that look in his eyes. There’s mischief and something cold and clinical taking up equal space there.

-You sure about that, Dean? Bobby asks.   
-Sure as anything, Dean tells him.

Bobby wrinkles his brow, throws up his hands and tries to look as if it’s not making him crack a grin the moment he has his back to the two of them.

Dean goes back out into the yard and tinkers with an old carburetor that’s been making the engine running rich. He’s got a smile on his face that he can’t really explain. The sun’s out, the dogs are hanging around the yard doing their thing and Dean’s pretty content at the moment. They’re going to need to get a move on in a few days once Sam’s had his fill of books and broken landscape and Dean’s not sure where they’re heading yet. He thinks Bobby might have a line on something, but Bobby’s still trying to work his head around the fact that Sam is going to be going on the job with Dean.

The thing is, he can see it from Bobby’s point of view, sort of. Dean’s never had a partner before, excepting John and that was more necessity than choice. Blood will be that, be a necessity, like there was any other way Dean’s life could ever have turned out under John’s vigilant eye. Sam is not something any of them could have predicted and it’s going to take some getting used to. Dean himself is finding it harder and harder to think of letting Sam go. He puts those kinds of thoughts away. He doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now.

If John knew that he’d just set that whole research thing in Sam’s hands he’d probably blow a gasket. That thought is more entertaining than it should be.

Dean was never outwardly rebellious. He’s always been loyal to dad, even when he had reservations about the ways in which that loyalty got used against him. He’s not foolish enough to think it hasn’t been, he’s seen the lengths dad will go to in the name of the greater good. It was kind of uncomfortable the first time he realized just how much dad was willing to play on that, but at the same time, he was actually proud dad trusted him that far, believed in him that much. It’s not an easy thing, though. Loyalty has a price. And Dean’s been hit with the sneaking suspicion, once or twice, that dad did what he thought was best even when it would directly hurt Dean.

That’s not something you want to know your only living parent is capable of, but at the same time, Dean knew that he could be called on to sacrifice a hell of a lot in terms of physical pain and emotional distance before he got resentful about it. He’s been building up a tolerance for that kind of thing since he was eight years old and he knows he still wants his father’s approval, but it’s not nearly as deep a need as some of their acquaintances think. Bobby still thinks Dean does too much and John goes too far, but he doesn’t have any family of his own and he’s not actually good at reading the subtleties between John and him as well as he thinks.

John’s approval sometimes comes at a pretty high cost, but the thing is, it’s always up to Dean whether he wants to pay that price or not. That’s the thing no one sees. Dean’s independent in ways that Bobby doesn’t understand and he’s kind of indifferent to a lot of John’s censure. It doesn’t look that way. Dean knows that. He’s heard plenty on that subject from things they hunt and people they’ve hunted with. Dean’s very good at snapping out a pitch-perfect “yes, sir” when they’re working. He’s always been good at keeping their debates behind closed door and their arguments well away from listening ears. He’s always understood the need for a united front, especially when he was younger and dad got so much shit for bringing a kid with him. And then there’s the fact that Dean’s been trained to be as independent as possible from a very young age. He’s always known that rankles with Bobby, because Bobby has seen hunters that got too solitary get lost in their own darkness.

The family bond is tight as almighty hell when it comes to some things, but that doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t perfectly capable of disobeying John, or just messing with him. Once John lost the hero shine Dean lost all interest in not calling him on his bullshit.

Giving the research to Sam is not about that, exactly. It’s more like courting. Letting Sam show off a little. That, and figuring out how Sam’s skills are going to apply to a real situation, where actual lives might hang in the balance. Sam takes to it just like that. He works hard for the next couple of hours and then comes to find Dean, showing him what he’s done. Dean looks it over and then grins and sends Sam back to Bobby to get a second opinion before he calls his dad.

It’s a thing of beauty, really, hearing John’s pleased, surprised voice gruffly muttering something about “good work” and knowing it was all Sam. Dean doesn’t say anything about it, just tells his old man to stay safe and call if he needs anything else.

-Was that an audition? Sam asks.

Dean looks him up and down and gives a little grin.

-You look good in tights, sweetheart? He asks.

Sam’s jaws clenches. Dean might have gone too far with that one. He’s wondering if he’s going to get his ass kicked or if he should apologize, or something, when Sam rolls his shoulders back and turns back to face him fully.

-I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue and you should see me in heels, Sam says and he’s managed to pitch his voice in something that sounds like one of those contralto femme fatales from some smoky nineteen forties movie. It really shouldn’t work as well as it does.

Dean’s staring. He knows he’s staring. He knows he’s staring and thinking about what else Sam would probably be able to do with a tongue agile enough to tie knots in cherry stems.

-Not an audition, Sammy, he says and drags his mind out of the gutter.

Then he very deliberately flicks a gaze in Bobby’s direction and Sam gets it. Dean’s just showing him off. It’s that simple, really. Two-for-one with that move, because Bobby saw what Sam can do and he saw that Dean’s willing to bet John’s life on it, which is pretty much the highest level of trust Dean could display in the circumstance. He’s not entirely sure himself where all this confidence in Sam comes from. It’s just that there’s been so much going on over the last couple of weeks that Dean thinks they’re headlong into this now and he’s got to throw himself into it wholeheartedly.

Not that he’s been exactly wishy-washy before, but he’s been holding back and he’s not going to do that anymore. He’s been telling other people and he’s been trying to ease Sam into it, but… fuck it. Just – fuck it. If he’s with Sam, then he’s with Sam.

Sam gives him a long, scrutinizing look and then smiles.

-Okay. Let me know if you change your mind about the heels.   
-You’ve got the legs for ‘em, Dean tells him and turns back to the engine he’s working on and listens as Sam huffs a laugh behind him.

Bobby is amused by the underhanded way Dean got John’s approval for Sam, but he’s still apprehensive about the part where Sam is going to be hunting with Dean. Most of the time John is the one who disapproves of Dean’s harebrained ideas and Bobby is the one who is more than content to just sit back and let Dean make his own mistakes. Dean sometimes thinks it’s kind of funny that people assume Bobby is his bonus father figure when it’s so obvious that he’s the den mother. Either way, the makeshift parental unit in his life is not happy about his choices. Nothing new there.

Sam’s not what either man would look for in a hunting partner for Dean, and he knows that because they have paired him up before. Always older, grizzled guys. Most always former military contacts, someone they’ve hunted with before. Dean’s always been the junior partner, because that’s the way it goes. He’s always been the one relegated to research and told to stay in the background. He’s been the one introduced as “the new recruit” and “the rookie”. He’s never been put in the position of having all the responsibility for, not only the hunt itself, but the details and the logistics.

Dean hasn’t told either Bobby or his dad that he’s never really fully trusted anyone they’ve set him up with. He’s always had his own means of transportation, his own money, his own accommodations. That’s been for the better, because Dean doesn’t get along with everyone contrary to popular opinion. He’s had his fair share of stupidly biased bullshit thrown his way because he is young. Dean doesn’t really trust anyone. Not all the way. Not enough to let someone else control all the money and all the exit routes.

That’s why Dean will never work with Will Coulter again.

The job he had been brought in on with Coulter was a little more complicated than it looked on paper. It goes that way sometimes, things that seem cut and dried when you read the police rapports are a messy, dirty, bloody business when you actually get there, and that had been one of those. Coulter had been fine when they met up, told Dean to come with him to interview the mother of the girl who had been found in her bedroom covered in blood. The girl had bled out, but not from the obvious wounds. That was the trigger, the thing that made it something they needed to take a closer look at. So Dean was supposed to go look at the girl’s room, try to read it with EMF if he could and just in general snoop around while Coulter talked to the grief-stricken mother.

Somehow neither dad, nor Bobby had known enough about Coulter. It started innocuously enough with him telling Dean what role to play, but as the job went on it got more and more unsettling. They had been staying at a Ramada Inn next door to each other, because Dean had flatly refused to share a room, no matter how much Coulter insisted that they’d save money that way. Dean had been eighteen on the cusp of nineteen at the time and Coulter had been good at spinning his bullshit to make it sound reasonable, but the thing is, Dean was really good at smelling that kind of thing, even if he didn’t exactly know what it was that he was picking up the scent of at first.

The harmless take-charge things, the orders on what to wear and what to do soon started growing exponentially more detailed and Dean didn’t bother arguing about it, mostly because he didn’t really care about little things like “wear your suit at all times to stay in character”, but after about two weeks of them getting nowhere it had started morphing into “you’ll have the omelet for breakfast” and “wear the green tie and the white shirt” and “wait for me here for exactly twenty minutes and don’t touch your phone” and Dean … well, Dean knew that had nothing to do with the job and everything to do with what Coulter really wanted from him.

Coulter had been handed the responsibility for the hunt and he was taking it as having been handed Dean to use any way he saw fit. Neither dad nor Bobby knew anything about that side of the guy. Dean knew the way the guy called him “son” was nothing like the way Bobby did it, with that undertone of exasperated avuncular affection. He heard the way the implied “good boy” and Coulter’s approval was tainted with all kinds of indirect wishes for a very different kind of obedience. It pissed Dean off in ways he couldn’t even start to express, but initially he had just gone along with it, anything to get the job done quicker.

The more frustrated Coulter became with the job the more he tried to take it out on Dean. The situation became infected and difficult and when Dean woke up one morning feeling vaguely nauseous for no other reason than thinking about having to sit down opposite Coulter in the diner of his choice, eating whatever he deemed fit, Dean had had enough. He’d got up, got dressed, went to breakfast and then ditched the guy to go do his own research. Turned out that when he didn’t have Coulter around it took less than seven hours to figure the whole thing out top to bottom and put it to rest.

The resulting blowout had been bad. Coulter had been livid and had raged at Dean for everything from not picking up when he called to going behind his back with the research and going out to kill the thing that had sucked young Milly Barnes dry after having cut her up. Dean had stood the ranting right up to the point where Coulter had accused him of disobedience and then calmly and clearly explained that he had got the job done and that’s when Coulter had told him that “that’s not the point”. When Dean had said “whatever” and turned to go, Coulter had put hands on him.

Honestly, at that point, Dean had probably been pushing for it, giving the guy the kind of attitude that he never would have otherwise.

Coulter had been putting a hand in the small of Dean’s back to guide him through doors, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder when he was sitting hunched over paper work and Dean had let it slide, because Coulter had the lead and the responsibility, but the second he put hands on Dean to punish him for getting the job done, Dean had uncoiled and punched him in the jaw so hard the man was spun halfway around the room and stumbled dizzily before dropping into a chair. When he had started getting to his feet to retaliate he had come face to face with Dean’s Glock.

Dean knows what he looks like. He knew that at eighteen clean shaven in a suit and tie he seemed soft and wide-eyed. He looked like someone who could be the “good boy” Coulter so desperately wanted. The look on Coulter’s face when he found himself staring down a barrel was particularly satisfying. Dean had told him equitably that if he tried to put hands on him again, Dean would kneecap him. He would have done it too.

Coulter had bristled and looked like he didn’t know whether to shrink away from Dean’s weapon, argue some more or try to wrestle control of the gun away from Dean. That would not have ended well.

Coulter had tried to argue that he was just doing the job and Dean had told him that the job got done because Dean had worked it the way they were supposed to. If Coulter hadn’t been so busy trying to work Dean it would never have taken so long.

As he was opening the door to get the fuck out of there he heard the scrape of the chair being pushed back when Coulter got to his feet. With his back turned and his gun still out, Dean knew he had a few seconds at most before the older man barreled into him and tried beating him into submission.

“For some reason Bobby and my dad think you’re an okay guy”, Dean had told him, low and serious. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

When he had spared a quick glance over his shoulder, Coulter had been standing frozen in the middle of the room looking suddenly sheepish, as if it all caught up with him at once. Dean had left ten minutes later and never wanted to clap eyes on the man again.

So Dean doesn’t necessarily trust Bobby’s and dad’s judgment when it comes to who Dean should work with. He understands their reservations, because so far all they’ve seen of Sam is a clever, starved street kid. Neither of them have seen how truly impressive Sam can be with only small means and Dean aims to keep it that way. Sam’s a … well, Sam looks like a stiff wind could knock him down, but Dean recognizes the fire in him. It’s the same thing that Dean has, the same thing that would have let him put a bullet in Coulter if he hadn’t backed off and feel no remorse about it.

The thing is… Dean really likes that side of the kid and he thinks that would probably deeply unsettle the parental unit.

 


	19. Intentions

Precognition, visions, oneriomancy, telepathy, telekinesis… These are all things that make Dean uncomfortable but he’s seen enough to know that there are some pretty good psychics out there. Dad’s even used a few in his time, though he’s distrustful of the whole business. There’s a huge grey area there between what’s actually okay and useful and what’s just downright dark. Dean knows that a lot of that stuff is supernatural, but whether or not it’s evil… well, that’s a whole n’other kettle of fish. Even though they’ve used psychics in the past dad has never stopped throwing out warnings about it.

Dad’s reasoning goes along the lines that no matter how good the intentions are, dabbling in those things draws interest from darker forces. Demons love nothing more than to mess with peoples heads and skew the odds in their own favor. Witches fall into the same category. So do a lot of other practitioners of older, more nature-based religions. They don’t necessarily agree on all that, him and dad, but the suspicion and the distrust were sort of instilled in Dean before he had enough of an ability to reason things out to be able to fight that first knee-jerk instinct of it all being wrong.

He’s met enough of the authentic variety to be able to differentiate between the new age hippy bullshit and the old school real deal, though. Things work. Things like salt and shells and exorcisms and seals and sigils. The cobbled together weaponized religious paraphernalia that they routinely rely on for hunting isn’t all that different to Dean’s mind, but John still sees it all as two separate and completely dissimilar categories. Dean suspects that a lot of the things that dad is uncomfortable with are simply the things that are out of his control and sphere of understanding. Dean, though… he’s been blessed by monks and sung over by a shaman. He’s made friends with people that believe in things he doesn’t even comprehend. He’s met singers and soothsayers and snake charmers and he believes in some things and disregards others, but at the end of the day he still picks up the holy water and the salt and the prayers in Latin and uses them.

When he looks at Sam he still sees just a kid. Only now, he’s seeing a kid that has more on his plate than Dean thought when he first laid eyes on him, and that’s what getting to know people is all about. You start out seeing just their outer layer and then you start talking to them and suddenly you find out they believe in flying saucers or magic underwear and you realize that not everything is as advertised. So there’s more to Sam than meets the eye. Same thing can be said about Dean. He can be a high school dropout with fifty-three bucks to his name and scarred knuckles, white trash at best, a dangerous drifter at worst. Or he can be a hunter, trained from when he was five years old and one of the best in the field. That’s not arrogance, by the way, that’s just a fact. It doesn’t mean that people don’t see him as trash, though.

The books Dean scrounged for Sam were all about the other side of the psychic freak show, the realities of it, as hunters understand that. Only, not the kind of bashing that dad would have given, and not the happy hippy stuff. Sam deserves … what had he said? Reliable source material. So Dean made sure he got both sides of the fence, even if there’s bound to be some hurtful stuff in there. Not that Sam hasn’t probably already had more than enough of that trying to figure all this out at the public library, like he could pick a mental illness like pinning the tail on the donkey. Dean knows how that goes, hallucinations and psychotic breaks being common explanations that crop up when people try defining things that couldn’t possibly be real.

Schizophrenia. Paranoia. Delusions. Trauma makes you see strange things, like your mother’s eyes turning a strange color, your sister’s teeth suddenly being longer and sharper than before. Or the beast that hunted you down in the forest not looking like any kind of bear you’ve ever seen, but it has to be a bear, right? It can’t possibly be anything else, not at that size. Or the mailman who’s eating cats out behind the dumpsters. Or … well, lets just say Dean’s heard a lot of very reasonable explanations for things that are in no way realistic. If you don’t want to see it you don’t have to, like a little kid hiding under the covers when there’s a monster in the closet.

Sam reads the books, expression sharp and focused. He doesn’t scowl or frown or smile, just absorbs and then goes very quiet. Dean’s not happy about that, he’d prefer if Sam threw a fit, actually, or tried talking it out. He doesn’t think that’s likely to happen until Sam’s had a little time to process, though.

Meanwhile, they can’t stay at Bobby’s much longer. Sam’s still uncomfortable around the man, or maybe he’s just not used to the kind of staid domesticity that Bobby’s house represents. It’s messy and cluttered, sure, and very much a bachelor’s house, but here and there you find little remembrances that Bobby is actually a widower. Those are clearly his wife’s dowry monogrammed kitchen towels, her hope chest linens. She’s the one that put up the curtains. She’s the one who bought a cookie jar in the shape of a fat cartoon owl.

Dean finds Sam in the study and he’s got a book on his lap but his knee is jiggling and he looks like he’s about to crawl out of his skin.

-Hey, kid. What’s up? Dean says and goes over to plop himself down on the couch.

Sam glares at him.

-When can we get out of here? Sam asks.

That sounds kind of urgent. Dean looks him over. The kid sounds rough, actually. Like he hasn’t been sleeping and hasn’t been … What the hell? Dean thought he was on top of this.

-Something wrong? Dean asks, because this? This doesn’t seem right.

Sam gives him another of those intense looks and then glares out the window instead.

-I don’t like… I can’t sit around. Okay? We’re miles from nowhere, I don’t have a car. I can’t get out of here if I want to. I … I’m starting to feel.

Sam cuts himself off. Dean looks at him again, closer this time. Dark circles under the kid’s eyes and he runs the last couple of days back in his head. Sam still reading when he falls asleep. Sam out of bed already when he wakes up. That’s been going on for a couple of days when he thinks about it.

-When’s the last time you got a good night’s sleep, Sammy?

Sam just looks at him like he’s that special breed of idiot that’s only been seen in rare footage. It’s a bitchy, prissy expression that makes Dean feel like he should have seen this coming about a week ago and how did he not see this coming? All he’s seen is Sam being polite to Bobby, cautiously friendly to the dogs and the usual brand of standoffish towards Dean when he’s not being a little shit or breaking down by the roadside. He wants to think that Sam liked it here, he thought they were doing okay.

Of course Sam’s not going to say anything. He’s just along for the ride. Dean fucking told him he was just along for the ride and he’s done nothing but reinforce that every time they’ve talked about where to go next. Sam’s explicitly told him that he doesn’t care as long as they keep moving and that’s got to be the key here, they’ve stopped moving.

For Dean Singer Salvage has always meant downtime, recuperation, replenishing supplies and trading gossip and getting maintenance done, but Sam has none of those memories and none of that history to fall back on. To him this has just been a test, an audition, a cautious minefield to navigate with Bobby and the dogs and Dean’s history with the place and John’s call and all the rest of it. To Sam it’s just stressful, all of it.

-I got about half a day’s worth of work left, Dean tells him. “We go tomorrow, after breakfast. That okay?”  
-Thank you. Yes, Sam answers.  
-On one condition, Dean supplies.  
-What?  
-You sleep more than three hours tonight, Dean tells him.

Sam looks away, down at the floor. He wants to argue, Dean can tell.

-Fine, Sam says quietly.  
-That’s settled then, Dean tells him, gets to his feet and goes to find Bobby.

Dean knows he’s in for another of those talks with Bobby after they’ve had dinner that night when Bobby gives him a significant look behind Sam’s back. He had pretty much figured there would be one of those in the works. He doesn’t even try to dissemble, has made promises after all, so he tells Sam he’s going to go talk to the man before they hit the rack for the night and Sam gives him an honest-to-goodness smile for that. It still messes Dean up a little that it matters so much to Sam, but he’s getting used to it.

Bobby is sitting on the sagging couch with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and another poured and ready for Dean when he ambles in. Bobby waits until Dean’s got a couple of sips in before he clears his throat and tugs at the hem of his shirt in some unconscious gesture to right himself.

-Now, I know you’re not prone to rash decisions when it comes to things that really matter, Bobby says sounding vaguely uncomfortable. “But I swear I never would have thought that you were going to do this either, so there’s obviously something about the boy that speaks to you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. He’s rolling the taste of the whiskey around in his mouth, thinking that Bobby’s been talking to dad and having some kind of goddamned discussion about this. It’s not like that would be the first time they’ve had that kind of talk behind Dean’s back. He can’t say for sure what it is that tips him off, but obviously this thing with Sam is enough for them to put aside their differences for now. It surprises Dean how abruptly fucking furious he feels when he realizes he’s about to get some kind of ultimatum, or suggestion, or come-to-Jesus talk from Bobby of all people.

He gives Bobby a nod to continue anyway, because this is going to be interesting.

-I don’t think you leaving is the wisest choice. I don’t think you hunting with Sam is particularly smart either. You two are going to get into a hell of a lot of trouble and Sam ain’t ready for it. You ain’t ready for it, Bobby says with that oh, so patient and understating tone that says the wisdom of the ages is backing him here. Dean just knows that this is what comes of late-night calls with his dad and the long and overly dramatic warnings that must have sparked.

-That you talking, Bobby? Dean asks.  
-You see anyone else here? Bobby replies and he’s gruff about it, like Dean’s the one being unreasonable.  
-Honestly? Feels like my dad has his hand up your ass and is using you as a puppet.

Bobby goggles at him, insult and anger on his face. The jovial uncle act drops fast when Dean just smirks at him.

-The hell you saying? Bobby spits.  
-Oh, come on. You were always pretty good at agreeing about this kind of thing. You want me to stick around so you can figure it out? You want me where you can keep an eye on me? Or is it Sam that has you worried?

Bobby’s trying, he really is, but he’s looking grim and underneath that there’s something else that looks a little like guilt.

-Did you call him the second we got here? Dean asks.  
-He called me.  
-Sure he did. And you picked up because the two of you have been longing to exchange knitting tips all this time.  
-You ain’t to big for me to put you over my knee, boy, Bobby says and he’s trying to gain momentum with that anger now, but Dean’s got his answer right there.  
-Try it, Dean says calmly.

He’s with Sam now. He’s taking this all the way to the bitter end, even if that means he’s got to actually do this with Bobby. He doesn’t want to. He knows that Bobby likes Sam, took to him after that research thing. He also understand that Sam bothers Bobby on a fundamental level because he’s not something any of them saw coming.

-John doesn’t like it.  
-I could give a shit what dad likes, Dean says.

Dad doesn’t like it because he doesn’t trust anyone that isn’t family and he’s a paranoid bastard on his best day.

-Son, this is not the smartest way to play out your teenage rebellion, Bobby says.

Dean takes a breath and doesn’t say the first thing that pops into his head.  
He doesn’t say the second either.

-No, I think did that when I was almost killed by a fucking shtriga dad baited me out to. I was twelve at the time, but I still think it counts.

Bobby’s eyes go wide and he looks at Dean like he’s caught completely flat with that one.

-Dad didn’t tell you about that during one of your little coffee klatches?

Bobby shakes his head, disbelieving.

-Alright, but that still doesn’t mean that this is a good idea, Bobby says.  
-You and dad have to make up your goddamned minds, Dean tells him. “I’m either good enough to take down nixies on my own and kill un-killable things and make my own goddamned decisions, or I need the approval of the two of you to live my life. Which is it?”

Bobby stares at him, shifts in his seat and seems to try and find a way to reason Dean over to his side.

-This ain’t about that, Bobby says finally. “This is about that boy. Dean, you know there’s something going on with him.”  
-Yes, I do.  
-Then why the hell are you still… Why aren’t you… Bobby tries but he doesn’t seem to know where to go with that.  
-Oh, please, do continue. What exactly is it you and dad think I should do? Not help him? Drop him by the roadside like so much trash? Dump him in a shelter? Or, maybe, shot him in the head just in case he’s dangerous?

Bobby sighs and drains the last of his glass looking at Dean like he wishes he could come up with something better than vague warnings and hints about things that he isn’t sure about, or doesn’t want to say out loud.

-Hunting still isn’t smart. Not when you don’t know for sure what is going on and not with someone who doesn’t understand what it really means, Bobby tries.

Dean thinks about the scars on Sam’s back. He thinks about Sam’s nightmares, his skill with a gun, his quick nimble fingers picking locks and turning pages. He thinks about the look on Sam’s face the first time he saw a ghost burn. Sam understands. Sam knows more than either Bobby or his father can fathom. Sam is seventeen and at that age neither Bobby nor dad had even heard of the supernatural as anything other than plots in monster movies. And Dean’s been hunting all his fucking life, it’s all he’s ever known. At his age his dad was still in the thick of a war and dreaming of the girl he wanted to marry.

-Hunting is what I was raised to do. Sam is with me now. How did the two of you think this was going to play out? Dean asks.  
-Not like this, that’s for damned sure. Listen, Dean, there’s more to this than you know right now, so I am asking you to please be careful, Bobby says after another pause.  
-Always am, Dean says and gets to his feet.  
He’s done talking about this and he’s done with the cryptic warnings. And he’s more than done with the kind of need-to-know bullshit he’s being subjected to right now. 


	20. Divergence

They worry about the wrong things, Bobby and his dad. That’s what bothers Dean. John has no problem sending him after a water spirit or a werewolf, but he gets all up in arms and overprotective when Dean makes a friend. And Bobby’s just as bad, despite having actually met Sam and had some pretty decent conversations with the kid. What the fuck do they think is going to happen? Do they think Dean’s going to wind up dead in the gutter somewhere because Sam has only been leading him on, or do they think he’s going to sprout horns and gore Dean in his sleep or something?

It’s just so fucking stupid the whole thing.

When he was a kid it made sense, the way they both insisted on Dean working with known hunters only, despite the fact that they didn’t always know them as well as they thought they did. And Dean had never questioned that, he didn’t see any reason to. The logic was good, the reasoning sound, even if it could feel a little confining at times. He lived with their sporadic overprotective bouts and found ways of vetting people on his own, learning from his mistakes.

Right now, he’s feeling a little beleaguered. Sam’s taking it all in stride, despite the bullshit. Sam’s being clear. He might not talk about everything and he might be complicated and devious, but Dean understands that. He understands it a hell of a lot better than he thinks either his dad or his uncle ever will.

Before he and Sam lit out Bobby pulled Dean into a fierce hug and told him to come back anytime, call anytime. Dean hugged him back, but he still feels a little sore about the whole thing. Sam shook Bobby’s hand and thanked him for the hospitality and the use of his library and Bobby looked pleasantly surprised. Dean couldn’t see any of the wariness from the conversation they had the night before in the interaction. That doesn’t make Dean feel any better.

They are on the road for about two days, just driving and not doing much of anything other than being in each other’s company. Sam is still thinking things over, obviously. Dean’s pretty sure he is going to start talking at some point, about something more substantial than what they’re having for lunch. He’s wearing a grove in Dean’s routine. He’s sitting in the shotgun seat like he belongs there, knees pressed awkwardly up against the dash. Dean watches his slender fingered hands weave patterns on the book in his lap, or picking at the edges of his perpetual coffee cups. Sam is still easier on the road than he was at Bobby’s house.

-So, hey, Sam starts when they’re pulled up at a rest stop.   
-Yeah?   
-I need a midsized town with a good library and at least one decent coffee place. And I need a couple of days.

Dean looks at him. Sam, for once, isn’t looking back.

-Okay. Does it matter where? Dean asks.   
-Not really.

Dean leans forward a little trying to get Sam to look at him. Sam makes eye contact reluctantly, like he’s expecting a bad reaction from Dean.

-I should have said something, you could have stayed with your uncle, or whatever, but … Like I said, hard to get out of there on my own, not hitching a ride with the locals and you two being what you are… I figure that wouldn’t have been a smart move.   
-No, that’s okay. You need time? I mean, you need time on your own, that’s what you’re trying to say here, right?

Sam’s expression is closed off, wary. Dean keeps himself relaxed, tries to not show how this is ringing all his alarm bells. This is too fucking close to the kid asking to be left somewhere and thanks for the ride and it’s been fun. Dean’s not ready for that, doesn’t think that’s what Sam really wants either. They’ve been in each other’s space, or at least in each other’s orbit, pretty much since Sam climbed into his car last time and it’s maybe a little too much, a little too intense, if you try to look at it from the outside.

It doesn’t matter that they have a connection, or that they get along like a particularly successful piece of arson, they haven’t actually known each other for very long and Sam has a lot on his plate. A lot to deal with. Dean’s mind is working really hard to make this something good and not a goodbye.

-I have a lead on a job, it’s not big or anything. I could… Here’s what I think we should do. I’ll find you someplace and set you up. You do whatever it is you need to do, I’ll go do the gig and then I’ll come back for you. Is that? I mean, does that sound okay?   
-Yeah, Sam says. “Sounds perfect.”

Dean bites down on the rest of what he wants to say, which would all amount to “this is not a goodbye” and “I’m not leaving you”, things of that nature. It doesn’t feel like that’s what Sam wants, just going by how his shoulders come down a notch. It makes Dean uncomfortable, sure, but not everything is about his comfort. It’s about Sam, now, too. He has to be able to let Sam out of his sight without thinking that he’s never going to see him again, no matter how ridiculous that thought is. Jesus, he’s invested a lot in the kid. Feels like that first night all over again, for some reason.

Dean makes sure to get a double at a motel that’s a little better than what he would usually find for them. He doesn’t want to drag this out, there’s no point in making it a thing, making it mean more than it has to. Sam needs a couple of days. That’s okay. That’s fine. He’s doing what Dean told him to do. Okay, so this is not the equivalent of putting a sock on the door, but if this is what Sam needs, then Dean’s going to make it easy for him, ‘cause, fuck knows, asking for it looked painful.

Dean’s standing there, watching Sam get his backpack and bag out of the car and he’s thinking about all the times he watched his father drive away, and he’s thinking about how much he can reasonably ask for here. He wants to tell Sam to call him every day and keep in touch and … yeah, he’s feeling a little like all those stories he’s heard over the years about sending your kid off to school, or summer camp, or something. He wants to make a bad joke about that too, but he … he just can’t right now. Fuck, this is hard. It shouldn’t be this hard.

Sam looks over at him. His hair is in his eyes and the sleeve of his shirt has ridden up enough that his bony wrist is bare and the kid is still too skinny, still too much hard bones and no fat on him and scars and mistrust and Dean’s just really having a hard time walking away. He doesn’t smile at Sam and he doesn’t try to make light of this, because it’s not the right thing to do, he can sense that. So instead he takes a step closer and puts a hand on Sam’s chest, right over his heart.

-You get into trouble, anything at all, you call me, he tells the kid. “Keep yourself safe. Use the salt and lock the door, okay?”  
-I can take care of myself. You know I can.   
-Yeah, I know. Just humor me.

Sam looks down at the hand Dean has pressed against his chest and then up into Dean’s eyes. For a long moment they just stand there and Dean knows this isn’t goodbye. It isn’t.

-Room’s paid up for a week, Dean tells him, even if he’s said that already.

Sam drops the bag at his feet and takes hold of Dean’s wrist. His fingers are a little cool against Dean’s skin, but the grip is sure. He’s got this look on his face like he’s surprised but a little pleased that Dean cares. He’s amused too, Dean thinks. Then his expression clears, smoothes out and he steps away from Dean, picking up his bag and heading towards the room.

They don’t say “goodbye”.

Dean’s halfway through a burger when it hits him that he should have given Sam a gun. He should have goddamned made sure that Sam could protect himself with more than that little pig sticker he carries. Fuck.

The hunt he’s got lined up came through Bobby and because Bobby had thought that Sam would be with him, it’s cake. The background research is already done and the only thing Dean has to do is dig up a grave and torch some bones. In the plain brown folder Bobby has put together there’s a map of the cemetery with the correct grave circled in red. The ghost is not even malevolent, just restless. It hasn’t done more than shift a few things around, hide some keys, low level mischief at best. It doesn’t matter, Dean does the job anyway and grits his teeth through the whole thing, because this is kiddy stuff. It’s insulting.

He calls Bobby to let him know it’s done and doesn’t say anything more about it, doesn’t tell him that Sam is currently off somewhere doing his own thing. By some strange coincidence John just happens to call him the next day, and what do you know, he’s just a few hours away and wants a quick meet-up “just to check in”. It’s not subtle. Dean thinks about being pissed off for about half a minute and then grins and agrees. Judging from the look he gets from a guy just passing him on the street, that grin is more than a little unsettling.

As a rule, Dean tries to avoid meeting up with his dad in bars. It’s just not good for either of them and Dean’s patience tends to run short when John has had more than a couple of beers. He’s poured his dad into bed one time too many when he was still short enough that he couldn’t quite fit a shoulder under John’s and take his weight. Childhood has always been a pretty foreign concept for Dean and he’s not exactly unclear about why that is. John used to drink pretty heavily back in the day and Dean’s seen that too many times to be easy about it. John’s a melancholy, belligerent drunk, more a wounded bear than a cuddly one, and Dean’s not happy having to deal with that.

It always boggled his mind that the same guy who preached vigilance and awareness of your surroundings at all costs could let himself get like that, sloppy and uncoordinated. He figures the stress release valve had to come into it somewhere, right? John’s wound too tight most of the time, burning on ire and righteousness and revenge. Understanding that doesn’t mean that Dean liked it any better, though.

So they meet up in a diner, or a restaurant, or the parking lot of a goddamned Home Depot if Dean can’t find anywhere else. This time the place is one of those midsized mom and pop diners that has red vinyl seats and an honest to goodness jukebox in a corner. Dean knows dad will be there before him and he knows his old man will be sitting at the back with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. Dean walks up watching John’s eyes rove around looking for the kid. His face doesn’t give away much, but there’s just enough there that he knows he was right. Bobby and John have been talking. Probably a lot.

They get through the greetings and the how are you’s and the ordering and Dean knows John’s dying to ask, but he’s not going to volunteer anything. He’s kind of baffled at the level of attention Sam draws with both dad and Bobby. He’s not sure why it sits so wrong with him, but it does. They drink their coffee and Dean waits it out. He knows it’s coming. He knows he’s in for another round of “you have to be careful” and “you shouldn’t be doing this” and lord knows what else.

-So, John says. “I was talking to Bobby.”

Dean nods. He’s got a few things to say on that topic, actually. Bobby is not the kind of guy that any smart hunter alienates willingly. John has, though, big time. And now, suddenly, they’re back to being buddies again. Dean knows that John pissed Bobby off enough that he put a shotgun on him, loaded and everything, and now they’re having little conversations about the weather? They must really think he’s a fucking idiot.

-Son, I know you’re old enough to make your own decisions, John says.   
Dean thinks “just not this one, right?” but doesn’t say anything.   
-It’s just that there’s a lot going on right now that means this is a really bad time to play babysitter to some kid who isn’t …

“One of us”, Dean fills in mentally when John goes quiet. He’s sitting there, mindlessly stirring his coffee and the clinking of the spoon is starting to get on Dean’s nerves. Dean’s not going to weigh in yet. He’s got this idea that if he just keeps his mouth shut either dad or Bobby are going to let something slip that he can work with, something that is going to shine a light on what the fuck they think this all means, because it’s pretty obvious they want to separate Sam and Dean for some reason. And Dean’s not buying the ones he’s hearing.

-Where is he? John asks, looking out the window like Dean might just have left Sam in the car or on the curb like some ill behaved dog.   
-He’s not here right now, Dean tells his father and watches the tick of irritation that flitters over John’s face before he schools himself into neutral.   
-So where is he?

Dean just smiles and the tension gets broken by the waitress bringing their food. Dean is playing this like a fucking chess game, because that’s what it is. Dean takes a few long moments while they’re eating to actually look his father over. His hair is a little greyer and he’s scruffy, but it’s about the usual amount of unkempt so that’s okay. He’s moving pretty well, doesn’t seem banged up. He looks really tired, like the weight of the world has settled heavily on his shoulders and there’s nothing he can do about that but carry on.

Dean loves his father. He does. He doesn’t always agree with the man and he doesn’t always like him, but there’s still a deep-seated affection that lives under the kind of irritation that his presence always seems to stir in Dean these days.

Secrets and lies. That’s their problem. It has been for as long as Dean can remember. John keeps things from him for his own good and it’s always been an issue.

-You need to listen to me on this, Dean, John tells him earnestly, looking like he’s about to start in with the commands again.   
-I have, Dean tells him.

They’re done eating now and Dean is leaning back in the booth, sprawled out and deceptively relaxed. He’s stopped trying, he knows it. He’s treating John like he would treat any other hunter, any other contact, any other stranger. There’s a shifting look in John’s eyes that says he’s noticed that something isn’t exactly the way he wants it to be. His posture goes a little on guard.

-It sure don’t seem that way, he says and there’s a clip in his tone, that old sergeant base note wanting to slip through.   
-I listen to you. I listened to Bobby. Neither one of you are actually saying anything.   
-You have to understand that there are things that we can’t tell you. That doesn’t mean that you can just ignore that and do whatever the hell you want.  
-Actually, dad, I think that’s exactly what that means, Dean says and the funny thing is his voice has gone into a soft, mild range that sounds an awful lot like Sam at his drifting best.

John looks at him like he wants to say something else, and it’s going to be an angry something.

-You want me to do something that I see no reason for without any kind of explanation. You want me to trust you on this but you won’t tell me why. If you were anyone else, and I really do mean anyone, I’d a tossed you on your ass by now.

John scoffs at that, but Dean holds on to his temper and keeps himself relaxed and soft and mild. This is not the way they usually do things and it’s not sitting well with John, Dean can tell.

-I’d a told you to loose my number, dad. I mean it.   
-That kid is trouble.   
-Still not hearing reasons.   
-Dean, son, if this kid is who we might think he is, he’s the kind of trouble that’s going to get you killed.   
-That doesn’t really change anything for me, Dean tells him with a shrug. “I’ve been running towards the kind of trouble that’s going to get me killed all my life."

At that John blanches abruptly and looks at Dean like he’s never seen him before. 


	21. Rabbit

Something about Dean’s attitude startles John. He’s kind of surprised that worked, actually, but dad starts talking.

Now, Dean’s heard a lot of things that have made his eyebrows go up and his mind shy away and just in general seemed completely ridiculous. He still remembers the way dad fumbled his way through trying to explain the theory and method of the incubus and succubus when he was just about old enough to start having wet dreams. This is not the weirdest shit he’s ever heard, but has a sinister undercurrent that makes all that pale by comparison.

There are some kids, dad tells him, that are marked. They have talents, dad says. They’re dangerous. All that stuff about telekinesis and mind control and other shit that sounds like it’s right out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not makes Dean think this is something they’ve been working on for a while. But it still doesn’t sound all that worrying, actually. So there are some kids who have stuff going on. So what?

It isn’t until dad starts rambling about how it all ties in with a demon that Dean gets it. Dad’s usual paranoia about psychics and gifted people is rearing it’s ugly head and Dean took Sam to Bobby’s and Bobby’s talked about all this with John and Dean’s just about done with the pair of them. Sam’s nightmares might be more than nightmares. They’ve already established that. Dean thought he could trust Bobby with that information, but he underestimated the loyalty between the two men, their old code has obviously reestablished itself.

He listens as dad rambles on about the ways in which that could be dangerous and the ways in which it might tie in with something demonic, not that he seems to have any proof and the only thing Dean can think of is how Sam shakes himself to pieces and shudders awake and keeps saying “no” in his dreams, like a refusal. When he wakes up from those dreams Sam doesn’t look like he could go a round with a wet paper bag and win.

Dean doesn’t say anything, though. He just listens. And, unnervingly, it seems like dad’s been tracking these kids. He’s been tracking them with intent. That makes all the little hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end. They don’t have much of a moral code when it comes to things like grave desecration and credit card fraud and burglary, but when it comes to killing people they actually have a pretty solid rule that they really try to avoid that.

That doesn’t mean they haven’t. Both of them. All of them. John killed during the war, so did Bobby. And Dean has secrets of his own, one or two things that he’s never told his dad about and that he hopes to hell the old man never finds out. Not all monsters have claws or teeth. If dad’s tracking these kids with intent. knowing he doesn’t really see shades of grey is a bad thing.

-You think Sam’s one of these kids, Dean says. “Off of what?”  
-Age range fits. The way he’s latched on to you.

Dean almost laughs. Yeah, Sam had been real willing to take Dean’s help those first times, hadn’t he? Not like he walked half a mile on a busted foot just to get away from Dean. Not like he left in the middle of the night. Not like he had rather hitched a ride to Maine than stay with Dean when he couldn’t be trusted to stay out of the kid’s stuff. Not like he hadn’t questioned Dean at every turn and tried every trick in the book to get Dean to show his true colors.

-That’s all you got? Age range fits? Dean asks.   
-I don’t think I like your tone, son, John says.   
-Well, you’re just going to have to forgive me my tone. Here’s the thing, dad. If Sam wanted to shank me in my sleep he could have already. If he’s supposed to be some kind of demon Trojan horse he’s doing a shit job of it. If the dreams are a part of some big overall master plan for him to take over the world they probably would do a little more good if they didn’t leave him whimpering in his sleep like a fucking kicked puppy.   
-You’re not seeing it, Dean. You’re not seeing how he’s playing on your weaknesses.   
-My weaknesses? Dean asks, and he hasn’t raised his voice yet, but they’re getting to that point, they really are.   
-You know what I mean. You always do this, you always …   
-Okay, alright, stop. I vetted him. You vetted him. Bobby vetted him. He walked through all the wards at Bobby’s place and nothing, dad. Nothing.

Dad is doing his best at staring Dean down, but Dean’s just not having it. They’ve argued hunts before, place and time, method and suspect. Some of their debates have gotten seriously heated, but they’ve always managed to reach some kind of understanding. Right now, Dean is not so sure they ever will with this. Dad’s decided, maybe with Bobby backing him, that Sam is dangerous. Dean really doesn’t like what that means.

-You set all this up here today, Dean says and now he’s too calm, feels like he’s getting ready for something really ugly. “What were you going to do?”

John just looks at him. It’s all there in his eyes. He’s got some kind of plan and Dean has a suspicion it might involve ropes and chalk and Latin. Maybe a shallow grave.

-Whatever it takes, John says.   
-No, Dean tells him. “We’re not doing that.”   
-We’re not? John asks incredulously.   
-Not on age range fits and paranoia. We’re just not. This is a kid, dad. A seventeen year old kid who’s had shit luck his whole entire life and for some reason still manages to keep going when half of the stuff he’s been through probably would have landed anyone else in the nut house.   
-And if I say differently?

That’s the crux. That’s the reason Dean is sitting across from his father with his whole body strumming with tension that he’s not going to show. He’s thinking about where all the exits are and how deep he would have to go to shake his own father if it comes down to it. He’s thinking that the shotgun Bobby pointed at John was probably warranted at the time and Christ knows how many enemies the man has, how many toes he’s stepped on. He wonders how much of the information dad’s got on these kids is bullshit and conjecture and how much of it is even remotely true.

-You’ll have to go through me, Dean tells him finally, reluctantly.   
-You’re one hell of a hunter, son, but I am still better than you.   
-I know that. If this is you testing my conviction, that’s fine. If this is you telling me you’re going to hunt me down over something you can’t even prove beyond a vague suspicion then we have a whole different problem.   
-We don’t know who this kid is, who his parents are, where he came from.   
-And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is what he does. Action speaks louder, and if you were thinking straight, you’d see that.   
-You’ve changed since you’ve been with him, dad says and that is really fucking scary.

All the other stuff before was still him and dad against the bad things. Now John is subtly shifting that to Dean being on the other team and that’s not good. For any of them. Dean wants to ask where all this is coming from, where dad’s getting his intel, but right now he’s got bigger problems.

-You don’t trust me, Dean says and it’s not even a question the way he says it.

And thank god that makes dad push out a hard breath and then scrub a hand across his face, rasping through the stubble. He looks exponentially more tired when he makes eye contact again.

-It’s not that. I want to trust you, but I don’t trust that this kid is who he says he is. Or what he says he is.   
-And there is nothing, no test, no proof, that could make you think differently, is there?   
-I won’t lose you to something like this, Dean. You’re all I have left.

Dean … he wants to believe that, he does, but it just feels wrong. It feels like a last ditch effort at manipulation rather than fatherly affection. Maybe because dad’s been so distant the last couple of years, maybe because Dean’s so incredibly sick of the whole thing. Maybe it’s just that Dean has grown up enough to know that it doesn’t always matter what John thinks of him and how he wants things to be.

Maybe it really is all about Sam. Dean thinks that’s actually likely. He has no intention of giving up on Sam just because dad’s suddenly got a bug up his ass about Dean being safe. It’s not like it’s mattered with any of the hunts dad happily sends him on. It’s not like Dean couldn’t have been dead in a ditch a thousand times over without his father even knowing about it for months. They’re not close. They haven’t been close for a long time.

Dean has the realization there in the diner, in the cold light, that he and dad share blood and they share the hunting, but that’s all they share these days.

-Then listen to me, Dean says and he’s not pleading, he’s just laying it out there. “Sam is not a problem. Sam is not a threat. Okay? And if he becomes a problem, then he’s _my_ problem.”   
-I can’t let you do that, dad says.   
-You’re going to have to, Dean tells him and smiles.

Then he excuses himself to go wash his hands, telling his dad that they have to talk all this out until they agree on what to do and that he’s going to walk away for a few minutes. Neutral corners, just so both of them can think about all this rationally. He asks his father to order him some more coffee and some blueberry pie, a la mode, please. He exhorts a promise that John sit tight and then he retreats.

John mostly works alone. When he doesn’t there are only a handful of people that he will call for backup and Dean’s always been at the top of that list. Right now, Dean’s got a big fucking problem because dad said “we”.

He’s calling Sam before the door to the bathroom stall is all the way closed behind him. Dean paid for that motel room with a credit card that he’s pretty sure John knows about. He’s fairly sure that John hasn’t gone that far yet, but if he was tracking Dean and if he was trying to put this together, then he might have tried to trail that card, as well as a handful of others.

Sam answers on the second ring, thank god.

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

-Sam, rabbit, is all he says.

There’s a tense silence at the other end.   
  
-Right now?   
-Right now. Cash only.   
-On it, Sam says and hangs up.

Dean puts his phone away, uses the facilities, washes his hands and his face and then goes back out into the diner. Dad is still there. There’s a slice of pie waiting for Dean and a steaming cup of coffee. Dean scoots himself into his seat and picks up the fork. He knows that right now Sam is packing up his stuff and taking off. He’s going to get on a bus and go three towns over, check into the second motel in the telephone directory and he’s going to pay everything in cash.

Dean hopes he’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to gamble on it.

John is studying his face and Dean is just eating his pie like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

-If I show you all the research, everything that we found, would that make it easier for you? John asks, serious and calm.  
-I’d like to see it, yeah. It won’t change my mind about the current situation.   
-Do you know that one of the places he lived burned to the ground and he was one of three kids who survived completely unscathed?

Dean didn’t know that actually. Not that it matters. Kid’s been all over and he’s been through the wars, so a fire somewhere doesn’t really bother Dean right now. And Dean seriously doubts that Sam is unscathed. He’s got scars from everything.

-He’s not a fire starter, dad.   
-How do you know?  
-I’ve been with him twenty four-seven. Not like he could hide that.   
-You sure?

Dean puts his fork down. He’s suddenly not hungry anymore.

-How long have you been working on this? Dean asks instead of dignifying that with an answer.   
-Since you picked him up.   
-Wow, Dean says. “You really don’t trust me.”

John sighs and looks more frustrated than anything.

-Anything out of the ordinary, anything that breaks pattern, I take an interest.   
-So me acting the way I always have, getting overly attached to civilians, like you always bitch about, that’s breaking pattern now, Dean says.

It’s still a chess game. It’s still the same damned web of secrets and lies. There’s still something dad is not telling him. Dean thought for a second there that he was getting somewhere. He’s obviously not. All he can do now, all he can hope for, is that John agrees to let him handle this, because once he’s got his teeth in something he rarely lets go.

-Okay, dad. I want to see the research. I want to look into it, see where it goes. But you can not go after Sam.   
-Are you giving me an ultimatum? John says and he’s swinging back into pissed off again.   
-I’m asking you to let this go. Let me handle it.  
-I can’t do that.

Dean nods slowly. He pushes the plate away and thinks about the whole strange unraveling tapestry of the past and doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to have to make the kind of decisions that are coming up.

-Okay. Alright. Then I need to know one thing.

John looks up at him and there’s hope in his eyes, an expression on his face like he’s thinking he’s finally getting somewhere.

-When I walk out of here am I going to have worry? Dean asks.

John’s face falls.

-I’ll give you time, John says and he sound sad and tired.   
-To change my mind? Or to run? Dean asks and he’s pushing really hard now.   
-To see that we’re right about this.   
-Okay, Dean says again and then he gets up and leaves without looking back.

He can feel dad’s eyes on him the whole way out the door. That used to be a comforting feeling. Right now it really isn’t. 


	22. Mikey

Dean’s still shaky hours later. He’s not going anywhere near the town where Sam’s heading yet. There’s a long list of things he needs to do first. The credit cards have to go, all of them. He and dad used to play this game with the names, rock star legends, old movie stars, stuff like that. He can’t use any of that now. He needs to get rid of most of his ID.s too. Anything he thinks John could trace. He’s got a few very bland Mr. Smith things that won’t make any difference one way or the other.

Disabling any GPS tracking, anything on any of his phones that dad might know about. Again, can’t take any chances there. He needs to change the plates on the car, too, needs to be less noticeable than he is now.

The protocol isn’t all that different from what they’ve worked out over the years for the few times that they’ve drawn the interest of law enforcement. It’s unnerving to think that John taught him some of these things, but Dean’s just going to have to deal.

John is the better hunter. Well… in some respects John is the better hunter. But Dean has some connections and some resources that John has no idea about. There’s the guy at MIT. There are a couple of connections that have dropped John like the hot potato he sometimes is and that Dean has mended fences with since. Dean has few strong ties, but he has associates. Allies. Some people who are bound to be sympathetic. Some that see the grayscale better and some that won’t care about the Winchester sideshow.

If it comes down to it, Dean’s going to have to do what he promised Sam in the first place and help him get lost.

Jesus, he really needs to have a serious sit-down with the kid. And he needs to call and yell at Bobby, mostly for his own peace of mind. Dean swerves into a random parking lot and cuts the engine before dialing. It takes Bobby a while to get to the phone. He answers with the customary “Singer salvage” and Dean can hear the familiar scrabbling of a dog’s claws on linoleum in the background.

-You might want to hold your phone away from your ear, Dean tells him.   
-Why would I do that? Bobby asks with some indulgent amusement.   
-‘Cause I’m about to yell at you. It’s going to be loud. And rude.   
-Okay. Why would you do that? Bobby asks and the confusion is too real to be anything other than genuine.   
-Because my father just told me Sam needs to be put down and if I stand in his way he’s going to go through me. And you agree with it, Dean tells him.

There’s quite an impressive amount of cursing after that. So much so that Dean actually ends up being the one holding the phone away from his ear for a while. When the expletives have died down Dean puts the phone back.

-I take it you don’t agree? Dean asks.   
-I told him. I told him that’s not the way to handle this.   
-I get the feeling you and me need to have a conversation before he takes me and Sam out into the desert.   
-He’d never do that, Dean. He loves you.   
-I’m not in the mood to speculate right now about what my dad is capable of, okay? I need to know what the fuck is going on with these kids and I get the feeling you have all the information on that.   
-I do. I wanted to tell you, but John thought it would be better coming from him.   
-Hmm. It really wasn’t.

They agree that Bobby is going to send Dean everything he’s got and then Dean has to listen to Bobby try to excuse his dad’s behavior with a second round of how it’s all just for his own good. Dean would probably be more receptive to that if his hands weren’t still trembling just a little.

Dean just sits there for a while after he’s hung up.

Things are moving too fast. And in all the wrong directions.

Dean does housekeeping over the next day, cleaning out the car of anything that dad might use to his advantage if he gets it in his head to track them. Dean doesn’t think he will, not yet. Most likely he’s going to be reluctant to move too fast on this, if for no other reason than him hoping that Dean will come around. Dean needs to start thinking in these kinds of patterns anyway. John is a very good hunter, but he’s not omniscient and he’s not Superman. He needs allies and contacts and luck to find Dean if Dean decides to get gone.

Another funny thing about that? John trained him in escape and evade as well. And Dean’s got a lot of practice. He hates the idea that he’s going to have to sleep with one eye open for fear of his own father busting down the door, but he might as well start thinking in terms of friend or foe when it comes to all of the hunters he knows. There are some that would side with dad sight unseen not knowing who, or what, they were going after. That’s a deeply unnerving thought.

He takes a long circuitous route to where he knows Sam will be. It takes a few days, more than enough to be prudent. His thoughts tend to run in circles like little disgruntled rodents on acid and he’d love to be able to say that’s all because of dad, but it’s just as much about Sam, worrying about the fucking kid getting himself into trouble. Which is ridiculous, because Sam can look after himself. Just, you know, not from everything.

He is in no way ready for what he finds when he drives cautiously up to the Motel 6 where Sam is supposed to be tucked away safely in his room, reading a book and snacking on apple slices.

There’s a group of kids in the vacant lot between the parking lot for the motel and the self service next door. Even from a distance Dean can see ink and wide belts, low riding jeans and too white sneakers. It looks like a random bunch of Latino toughs at first, just goofing off, hanging around. One of them, though, is alarmingly familiar and completely alien at the same time.

Sam is wearing what looks like Dean’s faded black hoodie over a white wife beater that’s at least one size too small. He’s in torn jeans and pair of boots that Dean’s never seen before. There’s a leather chord tied around his neck and his hair is just as unkempt as always. He looks thin as a blade and just as sharp. He doesn’t look like the soft spoken, calm-at-all-costs version of himself that Dean’s most used to. He looks like he would cut if you tried touching him, the flash of his eyes calculating and the way his hands move through the air like he’s already holding a weapon. Also, it looks like he’s made friends.

Dean drives to the very edge of the motel parking lot and kills the engine, getting out slowly. He knows Sam has seen him and he knows Sam has recognized him, but he’s not coming over. So Dean checks that his gun is still sitting snug at the small of his back and then ambles towards the group. Sam makes eye contact and everything about him says “play along”, so Dean does.

There are seven other guys there, all young, all a little busted up and they do that thing that young guys in groups do, shifting like a pack of dogs to evaluate him, giving him hard looks full of appraisal. Sam is leaning against a half destroyed wall and looking like he’s enjoying the spectacle. Dean puts a little more attitude into his walk and doesn’t respond to the glares he’s getting. When he draws nearer he hears Sam saying “mi hemano”.

The mood of the pack shifts a little, there’s slightly less of threat in their stances, but it’s still not exactly friendly. The guy standing next to Sam seems to be the one in charge, or at least he’s the mouthpiece.

-What kind of brother are we talking about here, Miguelito? He asks slinging and arm over Sam’s shoulders. “Same father, different mothers?”

Sam shoves at him.

-Same everything, Dean cuts in. “Making friends, Mikey?”

Sam doesn’t smile, but he’s amused just the same Dean can tell. He untangles himself from the guy trying to lay claim to him and steps over the half empty cooler of beer at their feet to come shove at Dean.

-You were supposed to be here yesterday, asshole, he says, punching at Dean’s shoulder and looking like he’s trying very hard to be pissed off, but still can’t help but be pleased.   
-Well, I got held up, didn’t I? Dean tells him and locks him in under his own arm, ruffling the kid’s hair with his free hand.   
-We rolling, or what? Sam asks.   
-You in a hurry suddenly, Irish? One of the other guys asks and Dean shifts his attention enough to see that that’s the guy in charge.   
-Road beckons, Dean replies with a wide smile that says the guy might be a big dog here, but Dean’s bigger.

No one can see it, but Dean feels the way Sam’s muscles just ever so slightly uncoil. He’s got bruises again, Dean’s already seen. Dean keeps a hold on him, feels the bones against his fingers, the lean lines of Sam against his side and he’s aware that something in him is relaxing too. Sam was supposed to be keeping a low profile and Dean realizes this is the way the kid choose to do that. So fucking smart, integrating himself with this bunch, even though Dean hates to think what he might have had to do to do that. Hanging out in a vacant lot drinking beer at ten in the morning is probably not the worst of it.

If dad had been looking he would have skimmed right past this group and the sharp boned youth in their midst. Sam, meanwhile, was in the perfect spot to see anyone driving up.

-See you guys around, Sam says and shifts his weight just enough that Dean knows to let him go.

Sam does some kind of complicated dance of handshakes and backslaps and thank you and goodbyes with all of them and he seems to have garnered their respect. More than that, they seem to genuinely like Sam. Dean just stands there and watches. He can’t help but be a little fascinated with the street rat version of Sam, the incredible sharpness of him, the clothes and the attitude well lived in and achingly familiar somehow. Dean’s seen kids like these before, in every town he’s ever been.

When Sam is walking next to him he fights down the impulse to throw his arm over the kid’s shoulders again.

-So, Michael, brother mine, have you been playing nice? Making friends? Dean asks.   
-Playing nice has nothing to do with it. Where the hell have you been? What happened?

Sam is walking straight for the car.

-Don’t you need to check out? Dean asks.   
-Not checked in, Sam tells him with one hand on the door handle to the passenger side.

Dean walks around and pops the locks. They get in as Dean takes that under consideration. Okay, so more than just Sam being clever and hanging out with the local cholos. Key around Sam’s neck on a leather chord. Fucking latchkey kid irony from the little urchin. Dean’s suddenly a lot less happy about the set up.

-I figure I need to swing by the bus station? He says, kind of redundantly.

Sam turns a washed-out version of a smile at him and nods once before giving directions. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve done this.

-What happened? Sam asks for the second time. “Job go bad?”  
-No, that part went fine.  
-So what then?   
-That’s a long and complicated story and I will tell you, but first we pick up your stuff, find a drive through and make some tracks out of here.

Sam nods again and Dean watches out of the corner of his eyes as Sam picks at a scab on his knuckles. There’s a bruise just barely visible on his lower arm. Defensive damage, the kind you get from blocking a blow. Sam’s been fighting, but his face is untouched. That’s not the kind of fighting that means someone wanted to do harm. Dean puts a few things together in his head.

-Did you… Dean starts and sighs, not believing he’s going to ask this. “Did you street brawl for money?”

Sam’s grin is bright and fast and completely vicious.

-Jesus Christ on a stick, kid, I can’t take my eyes off you for five minutes, can I?  
-You’re the one who told me to go. Cash only. Motel wouldn’t refund the days left and I had lint in my pocket. I thought you prefer this to me blowing sad sack middle-aged business men at the back of the motel.   
-How? I mean really. How? How the fuck did you find bare-knuckle fighting in a town you’ve only been in for five minutes.   
-I got skills, Sam says shrugging.

Dean would laugh if it wasn’t so incredibly typical of everything that’s been going on. He’s working at trying to keep Sam out of harm’s way and Sam is smart enough and tough enough to go up against god only knows what kind of opponent in a street fight. And they’re not even working at cross purposes. That’s the most infuriating part. They’re actually working towards a common goal. Dean’s obviously doing a shit job if this is the best he can do for the kid. All Dean wanted when this started was to help Sam out, to make his life a little easier. Now they’re in this and it looks like he’s not really been helping at all. If Sam was his little brother Dean would be kicking himself right about now. Not that he’s not doing that anyway.

Mickey Irish, the street brawler next to him, is looking at him with those impossible scrutinizing eyes and smiling a little.

-I hope you kicked ass, Dean says, because he can’t really argue the second part of the statement.   
-I can tell you sparring with you has definitely made a difference.   
-Then you can pay for your own damned burger, Dean tells him and Sam just laughs at him.   
-Seriously, though, Dean, what’s going on? You had me worried.   
-Yeah, Dean says. “Sorry about that.”

He’s going to need to tell Sam about dad. He’s going to have to lay out the whole damned mess before that and the whole damned mess that’s bound to come after. If he was Sam… he’s not sure what he would do in this situation, actually. Dean’s not sure what the lesser evil here is, which is the fire and which the frying pan. He’s not sure he’s doing anything good anymore, not when it comes to Sam and not when it comes to this whole situation. If Sam wants to go when he’s said his piece Dean won’t blame him. He’ll pay for a ticket to wherever the kid wants to go. He won’t even argue.

Or, well, no, that’s a lie. Dean will argue.

Things are still better when Sam’s sitting in the shotgun seat, even if his knuckles are busted and his smile is about thirty degrees off where Dean likes to see it. This is the jagged version of Sam, the one that cuts even when he smiles.

-You’re okay, though? Dean asks as an afterthought.   
-Yeah, Dean, I’m okay. Couple of bruises made all the sweeter by the cash in my boot, Sam says still keeping that studying gaze steady on Dean.

He sounds almost fond, which makes things better and so much worse at the same time.

 


	23. Henhouse

-Well, Sam says, “that’s terrifying.” 

They’re sitting on the trunk of the car in the middle of nowhere with burgers and fries and Dean’s just gone over the whole thing with Sam, as best he can. Dean watches Sam think about it while he chews his way through his dinner. Sam isn’t looking back at him, not yet. He’s processing, judging from the way his eyes flick over the landscape, skipping back and forth like he’s searching for something, re-ordering things in his head. 

-You’re not sure, Sam says after a while.   
-About what? 

Sam just raises an eyebrow at him, face otherwise impassive.

-Dad’s wrong about you, Dean tells him. 

He might not be sure about a lot of things right now, but that much he does know. 

-How do you know? Sam asks.   
-Have you ever killed anyone, Sam? 

Sam looks down and away, a twitch in his expression that looks a little like disgust and something more, something darker. Dean thinks the kid probably has wanted to at some point, but he sincerely doubts it has ever gone that far. 

-Well, I have. So has my dad. 

Sam looks back at him now, sharp and intent. 

-I’m not proud of it, Dean tells him honestly. “We’re supposed to be the good guys and we’ve both killed people. I don’t care what you might have thought about, whatever incident occurred, Sam, you’re still more of an innocent than either me or my old man. That’s the difference.”   
-You’re choosing me over family, man, we don’t even know each other that well, Sam reasons. 

Dean sighs. He puts the wrappers and trash away and turns to face Sam more fully. Sam’s eyes are back on him now and he’s tense, but not the way Dean had kind of thought he would be. 

-Something about all this has been weird from day one. I know that. Hell, you know that. But I know that my dad is wrong. Both of them, dad and Bobby, they’ve sent me information which I want to go through, but I want to do that with you, because this is just as much about you as it is about anything else. You have a right to know. 

Sam fidgets a little, fussing around with the leftovers from their meal and then looking off into the landscape again. 

-I want to tell you some things, Sam says. “I’ve been meaning to, actually.”  
-Go ahead, Dean tells him. 

It’s always hard listening to Sam when he really has something to say. It’s difficult because Dean knows he won’t like it, whatever it is. All of Sam’s stories are painful somehow. 

What comes out is bad. 

The kid tells him about how he’s been dreaming about a man with strange eyes for as long as he can remember. He tells Dean that the man in his dreams has been making him promises, trying to get him to agree to things.

-I only ever said yes once, Sam tells him. 

Dean doesn’t say anything to that so Sam takes another deep breath and that’s where things get so agonizing that Dean thinks the sunshine is all wrong. There should be thunder and ominous skies for this part but the light that filters through the trees is throwing dappled cheerful shadows all around.

There was a place, Sam tells him, where they send the hopeless cases. One of those boarding schools that’s part halfway house, part correctional facility, part something much more sinister. The guy in charge was the Disciplinarian Sam has talked about before. When he got there the guy, Jonathan Shale, took one look at him and decided Sam was his new project. The reason why the authorities all loved Bergen House was because they were so successful. Sam talks about how Shale ran the house like boot camp, how he used a merit and demerit system and doled out punishment every night, publicly. 

Usually when you put a bunch of troubled kids like that in one place they band together somehow, find alliances, make friends, try and protect each other, but Shale was smart. If a kid was found out having done something to break the rules he got punished, sure, but if it was found out that another kid knew about it, whatever the transgression was, whatever punishment he got was given to the kids who knew, only twice. And that’s how he got a nice little system of informants going. 

The only thing worse than being one of the guy’s target boys was being one of his favorites. That meant something altogether different. 

-He wanted me, Sam says in a low, sinister tone. “But he liked his boys pliant. Docile. And I just wouldn’t bend, you know. It got so bad the other kids were taking me aside, telling me to just give him what he wanted.”

Dean is listening, but he can’t fucking sit so far away from Sam anymore. He turns so they’re side to side, so Sam doesn’t have to look him in the face for this part and scoots closer, pushes his shoulder into Sam’s. Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Dean thinks he’s not even really there anymore. Dean’s heard this kind of tone on veterans and victims. Sam’s a thousand miles away and he’s telling Dean a story he’s probably never told anyone. 

-One night it all came to a head. He used the strap on me and then stood behind me grinding his dick into my ass and I honestly thought he was going to try right there, in the dorms, in front of the other kids. I figured I had nothing left to lose. So I fought.   
-Jesus, Sam. 

Sam’s head is bowed down low. He’s talking to his own hands now. 

-Won more punishment for that. The henhouse. Actually was an old henhouse, away from the dorms. Me and two other kids on lockdown there, punishment for infractions so bad we were ‘remedial’. Three days out there, half rations, fucking freezing at night and cooking during the day. 

Sounds like one of those movies about prison camps during WWII, somewhere in Japan, and Dean’s thinking of pilots shot down in enemy territory and putting that next to little Sammy. 

-How old were you? Dean asks. 

Sam doesn’t hear him, just keeps talking. 

-That third night the man in my dreams said he could make it stop. All I had to do was say yes. And I did, Dean. I said yes. 

Dean wonders how long he’s been carrying this. 

-The whole place burned to the ground. Except the henhouse. When the fire department showed up they didn’t even know we were there, at first. They didn’t figure it out until Lone started banging on the door. It was locked from the outside. I was beat up, malnourished, dehydrated, had a fever. They got me to the hospital and figured out I had pneumonia. Infection in the wounds. 

Dean just sits, trying to be steady, trying to be there. 

-I didn’t mean to, Dean, Sam says and now his voice is breaking. “I didn’t mean to”. 

Suddenly Sam doesn’t sound seventeen anymore, he sound like a little kid who’s so sorry, so, so sorry, when he didn’t even do anything wrong. Dean puts an arm around Sam’s shoulders and he’s not sure what to expect.

There’s a fraught moment where the whole order of things wobbles precariously and then Sam turns into him, grabbing handfuls of Dean’s shirt and crying, sobbing inconsolably into Dean’s shoulder. Dean holds on, pulling Sam into a crushingly firm hug and tries to be steady when Sam is shaking so bad he’s making Dean shake with him. Dean hears himself saying all the inane shit you say when someone’s falling apart on you and he doesn’t even think Sam hears him. 

They wind up sitting on the ground, Sam more or less in his lap, crying and trembling and hiding his face against Dean’s collar, wetting it with snot and tears and more than enough of them to have been locked down for years. Dean just holds on. 

When Sam finally stops shaking he takes a deep breath and starts talking more or less directly into Dean’s skin. 

-I prayed. I prayed and I didn’t think he was real. Just the imagination of some fucked up kid with nothing, right? Thinking someone out there was going to give me anything, give me money and help, Jesus, just help me, when I couldn’t … But I knew, Dean, I knew there was something wrong, that I shouldn’t, but I just couldn’t anymore, I felt like I was dying and he … The house burned down and all the other kids died. Shale too. The custodian, a few others, they all had it coming, but .. Dean. The kids. They were just kids, just like me and they all died. All of them except me and Lone and the Algerian. That kid offed himself a couple of months later. 

Sam untangles himself at that point and sits up, bracing himself with one hand on Dean’s chest. 

-I’m not innocent. Not if what they thinks about me is true.   
-How old were you, Sam? Dean asks.   
-Twelve. 

Dean just looks at him. Sam is a mess, snotty and wrecked with his bruises and scars and his red eyes and his secrets and the fucking weight of it all on him. Dean puts a hand on the back of the kid’s neck and locks their gazes together. 

-Listen to me, he says and his voice dips down. “You’re so strong, Sam. You’re so fucking strong, I have no idea how you’re still standing, but you are. And it’s not your fault.”

Sam tries to look away, but Dean shakes him a little. 

-Hey, look at me. It’s not. You were just a kid. You were hurting.   
-Still my fault.   
-No. You didn’t pull that trigger. You didn’t ask for that, did you? You just asked for it to stop and how that went down is not on you.   
-I want to believe that. I do, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not responsible.   
-Have you ever said yes to anything else after that? Dean asks.   
-No. No, of course not.   
-Do you want to?  
-No, Sam says with conviction. 

Dean doesn’t want to talk anymore. He feels wrung out. So instead he pulls Sam to him and Sam actually goes, comes back to Dean’s chest and presses in as close as he can get and they just sit there and breathe together for a while. Dean keeps an arm around the kid’s shoulders, rests his chin on Sam’s head.

They think they know, John and Bobby. They think they know how bad it can get. They’ve all heard stories. They’ve seen things, they’ve done things. It’s true that they know more than most people, but this? This is nothing either of them can understand. 

-I wanted him dead, Sam confesses in a low voice, sounding half asleep.   
-I think it’s probably a good thing that he is or I would have a hard time not going for a drive, Dean says back in just as confessional a tone. 

Sam doesn’t move, but a fine tremor runs through him like a ripple. 

-One more thing, Sam says.   
-I don’t know if I can handle any more right now, Sam.   
-Just this one thing, Sam tells him. 

Dean takes a deep breath and then nods. 

-For months before I met you he’d been offering me a warrior. 

Dean feels his spine go rigid. 

-I said no, Dean. I don’t say yes. I never say yes. But that night at the skate park I thought I was going to die, and I didn’t know if I would be able to say no. I thought that thing was going to kill me and then there you were.  
-You know I’m not, right? Dean asks. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”   
-Yeah, I figured that out, Sam says with a watery laugh.   
-Good. 

Sam is slowly going heavier against him, muscle by muscle loosening. It’s been one hell of a day. 

-You scare me, Sam tells him in a strangely subdued tone like he’s not all the way awake anymore.   
-You don’t got to be scared of me, sweetheart, Dean says and runs a hand through Sam’s hair, scratching softly through the tangled mess. 

None of this was in Sam’s file. Not a damned word of it. 

Somewhere, someone had gone through a lot of trouble to cover all this up. Some government agency, no doubt. If this place had been a favorite of theirs, then there would be all kinds of hell to pay if it ever came out what had been done to the kids entrusted in their care. Dean has no doubt that Sam is telling the truth. Monsters Dean gets, people are just … people are always just worse somehow. 

Dad had mentioned something about a fire. Dean had thought at the time that was either an accident or maybe some other kid starting something and that’s probably what it all had been put down to. How they managed to cover up the fact that three kids had been found locked in a henhouse, beaten, starved and malnourished isn’t really the point. It makes Dean angry just the same. 

Somewhere, someone had sacrificed these kids just not to have to deal with the fact that they’d condoned institutionalized torture of children. Dean doesn’t mean to tighten his grip on the kid in his arms, but he does anyway. Sam only shudders in response. 

It’s like so many other things in Dean’s experience, too fantastical to be true. Too outlandish. Too fucking grim. 

It doesn’t matter anymore now that dad has ideas, that Sam has more than a little darkness nipping at his heals. None of it matters when Dean has the kid close and safe for the moment.

Dean can’t walk away now, if he ever really could.


	24. Trouble

Despite everything the next couple of days are weirdly calm. It should feel like the sky is falling on their heads, Dean thinks, but instead everything shifts and realigns itself in new and interesting ways. Sam isn’t any different from the sarcastic, caustic, wildly intelligent blade sharp kid Dean’s always known, pulls himself together and doesn’t seem the least bit affected by the revelations and roadside confessions. 

Dean himself thinks he should feel a lack of confidence from knowing his father isn’t backing him here and Bobby’s loyalties are too divided to be entirely trusted. He should be looking over his shoulder every minute of every day. Instead it all feels like … well, it doesn’t really feel all that different from all the other times he’s disagreed with his dad and then gone off the radar for a while to cool his head. 

One thing is very obviously different, though. 

Sam doesn’t shy away from him anymore. 

Dean has been aware of a certain distance between them, a kind of cautious barrier that Dean has been keeping in deference to Sam the whole time. Sam has always seemed untouchable, overly conscious of the space between them, the ways in which they interact, the habits they’ve fallen into. There’s always been the unconscious flinches from Sam and the wary stillness that comes over him when someone’s in his personal space. Dean’s seen him deliberately quench the instinct to reflexively step away when someone tries to encroach on that. That’s not there with Dean any more. It’s only now when Sam’s not doing it that he notices how incredibly obvious it’s been the whole time. 

Sam’s not touching him any more, or any less, than he has been the whole time they’ve known each other, but there’s always been this slightly dangerous vibe that Dean has paid attention to on an almost subconscious level that’s made him respect Sam’s boundaries. That’s just not there now. It makes Dean feel lighter, somehow. 

They drive in a long meandering path for a while and then go all the way to nowhere in particular, Dean driving with the kind of lost focus instinct that makes them wind up in Nebraska. He couldn’t honestly tell you why. 

The motel they find is clearly faltering, offering “off season prices” that make Dean wonder if they’ve ever had an on season and that means they get a hell of a lot more bang for their buck than Dean was expecting. He gets them a room and then fishes his laptop out if the trunk. Sam looks at the stickers on the lid and then at Dean with something almost like a smirk on his lips. Dean doesn’t say anything, just waits for the information from Bobby to download. The connection is not exactly steady. 

It’s not what he’d been hoping for and judging from Sam’s expression when he’s read through it all, it’s not what Sam thought it would be either. They sit there looking at each other for a long moment and Dean can feel his own temper rising. Sam’s eyes are stormy, but somehow he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised, like he’s used to the worst possible consequences for the least little nonsense reasons. He probably is, Dean figures. 

-This is bullshit, Dean says out loud after another long minute of quiet.   
-It really kind of is, Sam says rubbing at his face with both hands and pushing out a hard sigh. 

This is the equivalent of getting a forty page summary of a military operation from the government with thirty eight pages blacked out. It’s obviously missing pieces in a way that means what they’re left with is the header, the explanations they’ve already got, and then nothing but static. 

-I thought they said they were going to give you the information, Sam says.   
-Yeah, that’s what they said.   
-Well… I’m kind of disappointed, Sam says in that blankly deadpan way that Dean has learned to appreciate. 

He can’t help it, he laughs. Sam looks at him like he’s lost his mind and then one side of his mouth quirks up and he’s laughing too. It’s a release of sorts, but it’s still a fucking kick in the gut. 

-As a declaration of intent I think this is pretty clear, Sam says when they’ve both tapered off.   
-Yup, Dean agrees.   
-So what do we do now? Sam asks. 

Dean takes a minute to think that over. 

-There’s one guy, Dean offers. “He’s better at demons than either Bobby or dad. And he’s … not going to be trouble for us.”   
-You mean he’s not going to pick a side.   
-Oh, no, he’s picked a side. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. 

So Dean explains about Jim Murphy. 

There are few immovable forces in the world. Pastor Jim happens to be one of them. John used to have a strong friendship with the man, and he trusted him implicitly when Dean was younger. Dean’s spent a few months here and there under Jim’s roof, and he’s always been the first emergency contact John left for Dean no matter where they were. Jim was always there when he was a kid, one of the few guys who would open his door when you popped up at his doorstep in the middle of the night and never made a big deal of it. The other thing about Pastor Jim that Dean always liked is that he could not be intimidated. Not by John and not by anyone else who tried. 

-You don’t think this is… you don’t think he’s gonna… Sam fumbles around for words and Dean grins at him.   
-He’s not going to have any problem with you.   
-How can you be so sure?   
-You’ll see, Dean says, because that part he really can’t explain. 

Jim Murphy is more than just a man of the cloth. He’s more than a hunter. He’s always straddled the divide and put his faith in the higher power he serves. He’s sort of the unofficial official expert on demon lore in the community. And he’s psychic, but Dean’s not going to even try and explain that part. He’ll leave that to the man himself. It’s not Dean’s secret to tell anyway.

-I’m not going to push this on you. It’s up to you, Sam, Dean tells him.   
-If you think it’s the best idea, then we should go see him. But Dean, if it turns out that your dad already got to him...   
-Oh, no, he’s not the kind of guy that lets other people make up his mind for him.   
-Okay, then let’s go, Sam says and looks around for his bag.   
-Hold your horses. I need some real sleep and some food. And a Laundromat. 

Sam makes a vague agreeing noise and then refocuses all his attention on the laptop in front of him. Dean gets up and starts shoving dirty clothes into an old army duffel. 

When they’re heading out Sam side steppes him and glides up in front between Dean and the door. He stops Dean with a hand to his chest. This is what Dean’s been talking about, this sudden complete lack of distance. Sam is looking him straight in the eyes, and that’s not unusual, but he used to do that from across the room, not from a hair’s breath away. The kid’s gaze is razor-sharp. Dean keeps himself very still, not exactly trusting this sudden one eighty. 

-Am I a job to you? Sam asks, focused and serious.   
-No, Dean tells him. 

At least it’s not hard to be honest about that. Sam needs to step away, though, because otherwise they’re going to get into some pretty deep waters that Dean really doesn’t think the kid wants. 

Sam leans back and that means he’s leaning against the door, still with one hand on Dean’s chest and Dean kind of wants to follow that movement, push into the pressure of Sam’s touch. 

-Then why aren’t you hunting? Sam asks and his eyes are shaded now, half hidden beneath his hair. 

Dean just shakes his head. He can’t right now. There are bigger things in play. 

-There’s more to me than that, Dean tells him and he can’t help the way his tone dips, low and somehow inviting, despite all his better intentions.   
-Oh, I don’t doubt that. 

Dean kinds of wants to ask what the hell it is he’s doubting. The thing is he’s getting the same feeling that he got from a part of his recent conversation with his father and that lines up all wrong in his head. It might be just some kind of backlash from that, or the reluctantly whispered words of a couple of nights ago, but it hits Dean right there when he’s pressed in close enough to Sam to feel him breathing. 

-You don’t trust me, Dean says. 

And so help him if Sam says no. Or any variant of that that sounds even remotely like a no. Sam is looking at him still, eyes calm. 

-No one’s ever done anything for me for nothing, Sam says instead. 

That’s actually worse. 

That makes Dean angry. The anger is multidirectional, though, not just focused on Sam but on every creep out there that ever hurt him, which makes it a much bigger feeling than Dean’s comfortable trying to deal with right now. 

He should step away. He should. He just doesn’t. 

Instead he drops the duffel to the floor and takes one small step forward, making Sam press back harder into the door. Dean’s hands come up without him thinking about what that means and he’s got Sam boxed in, palms pressing into the cracking paint on either side Sam’s head. Sam just watches him. 

-You and me, Dean says and it comes out like half a threat and half a promise, “we understand each other, don’t we?”   
-Maybe, Sam says.   
-I don’t want to trade with you, Sam. I never have.   
-Yeah, that’s the part I don’t get. 

Dean doesn’t want to set the kid off, but he might have to push a little here, just to understand what all this is about. 

-Would it make more sense that way? Dean asks. 

He knows Sam gets what he’s asking. He knows because Sam’s gaze flicks down to the floor, but not before gliding lightly over his face and catching for the smallest sliver of a second on Dean’s lips. Oh, so it’s like that then. 

-Or is it that you want something from me? he follows up with before Sam’s had a chance to figure out a way to answer that that’s only going to make Dean angrier.   
-I can’t ask anything of you, Sam says.   
-You can ask, Dean tells him. 

Right now, Sam is not someone Dean would ever think of as a kid. Right now Sam is standing there, back pressed firmly into the door behind him, blocking Dean’s exit and making him talk about this like it hasn’t been a persistent thing between them from the very beginning. If Sam asks, whatever Sam asks, Dean’s going to say yes. He always was going to say yes. That’s not the same as it being the right time or place. Or a smart move. 

-I really can’t, Sam says and the hand on Dean’s chest pushes, so Dean takes a step back and lowers his arms. 

Sam doesn’t look at him as he opens the door and walks out. 

Well… most of the time you can trust Sam to make the smart move, even if it’s a kamikaze kind of thing. Dean takes a moment, breathes, changes the direction of his thoughts and tries really hard not to think about what Sam might have asked for. His mouth, definitely. What Sam would have wanted with his mouth is kind of the part that has Dean’s thoughts spinning. Just to kiss? Probably not. He probably shouldn’t have talked about trading with Sam either, but how does he explain that this really isn’t something for nothing the way Sam seems to think? 

Walking fast he catches up with the kid just as he is about to cross the road to where the Laundromat is. 

-You know you don’t owe me anything, right? He asks. 

Sam doesn’t stop walking, just casts a quick glance in Dean’s direction. 

-Oh, I’m racking up a debt with you that I’m never going to be able to settle.   
-‘S not how it works, Dean tells him. “When we met I said I’d help you out and it feels like I just keep getting you in more and more trouble.”   
-Really? Seems to me I’m the one dragging you deeper and deeper into my … trouble.  
-Trouble all around, then, Dean agrees. “I’ll drink to that.”   
-Yeah, you would too, Sam says and pushes the door to the Laundromat open for them. 

Dean goes about the quotidian task of stuffing clothes into machines and checking the pockets for stray coins and bullets. Sam is helping and looking surprisingly mundanely bored, like the whole underpinning of their friendship isn’t on a foundation of loose sand. Sam’s wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts. He does that. Steals Dean’s clothes. He has been doing that since the first night. Dean wonders idly if that means something or if it’s just blunt practicality. 

There’s one machine already buzzing in a corner, but they’re alone in the place. Dean knows they should be talking about other things, but he can’t help wanting to finish the conversation Sam just started. It seems more important. 

And Dean wonders why no one trusts him. 

It’s not like he doesn’t lie, cheat, steal, finagle and otherwise con pretty much everyone around him on a regular basis, but some people should know better. His dad. Bobby. Sam, for sure. 

It seems they’re all unwilling to take him at his word these days. 

There should be some kind of anger about that, Dean thinks. He should be pissed off about that because despite all the hustling he does he still sees himself as an honorable man. At least when it counts. Dean sits down on a low bench and watches Sam deliberate for a moment before straddling the same bench, facing Dean. 

-The thing is, Sam says, “it feels like we’re chasing ghosts. Or the ghosts are chasing us, you know what I mean?” 

Dean does and doesn’t agree with that so he shrugs and looks over at the kid. 

-I like you, Sam. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that, he says because that’s about as simple and straightforward as he can make it.   
-And I can’t for the life of me figure out why, Sam answers and looks out the window.


	25. Influence

There are stories about drowned sailors that drift to the surface with black and blue marks on their shoulders. Boot prints. Marks of their comrades who tried surviving by trampling them underfoot to reach the surface. Dean doesn’t think there isn’t much that people won’t do to survive. No matter how bad it seems you can justify pretty much anything.

Sam is sleeping on the bed in the corner of the room. He still sleeps like a warrior on campaign, blanket tucked almost all the way up over his face and the rest of his body folded in neatly in a way that means he can, and will, be up and off the bed at the first sign of trouble.

What Dean’s got from the last couple of days is the deeper understanding that Sam’s never received any kind of kindness that didn’t come with conditions. Nothing, not food or safety or clothes or a place to sleep was ever free. Never mind the basic security of just not having the person closest to you looking to take something from you at any given moment. It’s … a lot worse than it’s been for Dean.

Dean’s known that he needs to be careful about how much he lets someone else have of him, but at least he’s never had to trade for everything from the time he was a child. It shines a new light on the way Sam reacts to things to know that he must have been wondering this whole time what the charge is for everything Dean’s done, from putting bullets in bogeymen to buying him apples.

This thing that’s going on now, with dad and demons and gifted children… it takes on a whole new dimension when you look at it from the perspective Sam seems to have on the world. Sam still seems to be wondering what it’s going to cost him to have Dean on his side. He doesn’t seem to hear Dean when he says that this is just the right thing.

Dean thinks back to one stray he couldn’t keep. One of those dogs that seem to be everywhere, some dirty skinny mongrel that reached about to Dean’s knee. He couldn’t figure out what breed it was, there wasn’t even enough of a breed to be able to see in it. Just mongrel. He never got around to naming the dog beyond calling it “boy”. It was so skinny Dean could see ribs. It was so dirty he could only take a guess at its real color. Flees and ticks and scabbed paws and half an ear missing. It had let Dean feed it but it had taken hours to get it to come close enough to even touch the food.

Dean remembers the look in the dog’s eyes. Smart. Feral. Distrustful.

He could never get it to come close enough to get it in the room with him, no matter how he coaxed. Then, a couple of days later, Dean had seen the cleaning staff of the motel he had been staying at throw rocks at the dog when it was slinking closer to Dean’s door. It took off and Dean never saw it again.

It’s a fucking stupid thing to think about, isn’t it? Stupid thing to remember so many years later. Even more stupid to think there’s any kind of correlation between Sam and that mutt, but somehow there is. For the dog it might have seemed like Dean had only been baiting it to get it in reach of that unexpected sudden pain. It’s maybe a little mawkish to think that way, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t still bothering him. People have been throwing rocks at Sam his whole life.

Sam makes a small noise in his sleep and Dean tenses involuntarily for just a second. He breathes out when Sam settles back down. Nightmare noises. Hopefully nothing more sinister than that.

Dean’s sitting with his back to the headboard reading through some of his notes on the “gifted children” and he’s not sure what it all means, what the pattern really is. Dad’s blacked out something big, he can see it in the missing pieces. It’s not overt, but it’s not exactly subtle either. Dad’s always been very good at putting patterns together and this is what it looks like when all the pieces are there except the thing that makes the pattern in the first place. Dean learned how to do this from some of the best in the business, so how they thought he was not going to see this is a little insulting.

He thought about calling. Picking up the phone and asking dad what the hell the point of all this is if he’s not going to give Dean a fair shake to work it out on his own, but he knows where that conversation is likely to lead and he’s not eager for that. Same thing with Bobby, though he might just be working off John’s intel and that means that he doesn’t have anything more to go on.

There’s nothing in particular tying these kids together. They’re all about the same age, give or take a couple of months. They’re from pretty much all over, all kinds of families, all kinds of social strata, all different. Sam’s the right age, that is true, but he seems to be one of the ones that have been fucked over the worst. There’s a kid called Scott who seems to be struggling but most of the others come across as just … living their lives. Coping. Dean can’t help wondering if there are hunters out there, keeping an eye on them.

Occasionally, hunting is grim. Occasionally good people do terrible things and terrible things happen to people for no good reason. It gets messy the same way a natural disaster gets messy, striking down everyone in its path and not caring in the least if it hits the good, the bad or the ugly.

Sam makes another noise, this time a strangled little hiss that sounds a little like the growl a cat can make when it’s chasing birds. It’s more amusing than it should be. Dean looks over and sees the tightening of Sam’s shoulders that means he’s waking himself up. It takes a little while, but then he slowly turns over in a liquid roll that Dean can’t help but like the looks of.

-Why are you awake? Sam asks sounding like ten miles of rough road.   
-Go back to sleep, Sammy.   
-Okay, Sam mumbles and does just that.

Dean smiles and goes back to his notes.

If there are demons in this then they are sure as hell playing a long game. That’s not the way things usually go as far as Dean can tell. The few times he has ever come in range of something that might be demonic it’s been clear-cut chaos. Brutal and nasty, absolutely, but with all the subtlety of a tire iron to the head. The one demon hunt that Dean has any memory of looked like they were chasing a butchering serial killer that liked draping himself in the intestines of his victims and bathing in their blood. Not exactly low key.

Dad has some theories about what happened the night mom died, but then, burning down a house is not exactly inconspicuous either. Why it was their house and not the neighbors’ is still a mystery as far as Dean knows. He hasn’t been able to get all the details of that out of dad, no matter how often he asked. Dean doesn’t really remember. He doesn’t remember the year after either. Bobby told him once that he had been real sick after the fire, smoke inhalation and just shock, probably. He remembers dad saying that he didn’t talk for a long time. Dean knows these things the same way he knows that he grew up in Lawrence, but he doesn’t remember any of it. Not really.

Demons probably can play a long game. They have the stamina for it. Time doesn’t really matter to them the way it would to something mortal, but that doesn’t mean that they usually do. Not their typical MO.

Possession. Dean’s never witnessed the full spectrum of that. He’s heard things and he’s seen things, mostly the aftermath, but he’s never seen anyone turn and he’s never seen anyone survive it. Horror movie stuff. Dad said once that The Exorcist didn’t get it all wrong. He hated that movie. Dean’s always had an appreciation for horror movies, why wouldn’t he? It’s not like they’re true in any sense, but sometimes they get some things right. The idea of demonic possession is so old that it has to have some truth to it, though Dean thinks some of the more colorful eyewitness accounts are probably more fiction, covering up the rank deeds of regular humans more often than not.

Every myth has its origin in something half true and half fairytale anyway.

Dean knows that if there are demons in the mix all the rules are out the window. That’s why he wants to talk to Pastor Jim about this. Exorcisms are hard work. Tricky, too. Demons have to follow some rules, that’s true and there are things that are effective against them, but they are slippery bastards. If you have all the time in the world you can find loopholes to most rules and Dean remembers that being one of the things that Pastor Jim warned him and dad about once when they were talking about all this. He remembers Jim talking about a hierarchy, like with everything else. The older something gets the more powerful it is. They had the same discussion with Elkins about vampires and with Callum about werewolves. Older means smarter, faster, just all around more trouble.

Demonic influence, though, that’s something else.

Influence doesn’t mean the same thing as possession and that’s maybe what dad is getting wrong here, now that Dean thinks about it. Influence still leaves you a choice. He was trying to explain that to dad and to Bobby, too. Just because there’s influence doesn’t mean that you will do the worst thing imaginable. It’s a little like saying just because you hear voices doesn’t mean you have to do what they’re telling you. Scary thought. It’s probably like that for Sam. Jesus Christ, that kid. Dean thinks it’s ridiculous that he can be as strong as he is. He should be falling apart. He ought to be falling apart. Instead he just takes the beatings and then gets right back up again. It’s not even a metaphor most of the time.

You can counteract influence. Sam sure as hell has been. Well, at least when it comes to some things. And Dean’s not going to hold something against Sam that happened when he was beat up and vulnerable and sicker than a dog. From what Dean can tell that little horror show was probably a lot worse than Sam lets on and he’d still held out longer than most kids his age would ever have had the strength to.

These are all morally hazy areas, anyway. What you become when someone is holding a gun to your head isn’t pretty. Dean should know, he’s been in that situation. He’s never begged for his life, not yet, but then he’s always been stupid enough to believe he could get out of whatever situation he was in. If there was really no way out, though, he figures he’s one of the ones that would chew his own foot off to be free, do whatever it took.

-You privilege one subjective judgment over another, Sam says suddenly.

Dean glances over and Sam is obviously, painfully awake and alert.

-I thought I told you to go back to sleep, Dean says.   
-I don’t always do what I’m told, Sam replies deceptively sweetly and hefts himself up onto one elbow, bunching the pillow in his armpit. “And you’re reading through that stuff for like the fiftieth time.”   
-Yeah, it still doesn’t make sense to me.   
-Or it does and you don’t want to see it.

At this point Dean is starting to get the feeling they’re having one of those conversations where they’re talking about at least two things at the same time. They probably are. They usually are. It’s kind of how things work with this kid. Sam is looking at him now with that steady, studying gaze that means he has things on his mind. Then again, he usually does and that’s more often than not another two things at the same time. At least.

-You have thoughts about my subjective judgment?   
-Of course I do.   
-Lay them on me, then, Dean says and puts the papers down on his lap.

Sam takes a moment, probably gathering up his thoughts into the kind of cohesive whole that Dean saw with his research.

-You’re making this out to be … look, this isn’t heroes and villains. They’re not just nice kids. _I’m_ not nearly as nice as you seem to think.

Dean thinks about Sam in a back alley with a knife in his hand, cutting a strip out of a guy’s ear just because he was a small-minded dick. He thinks about the lovely girl that tried pleading with ‘Johnny’ to stay and talk to her and the ice that trickled into Sam’s tone when he told her she wasn’t worth it, or more correctly, that fucking her wasn’t worth it. He thinks about the kid that must have stripped down to his too tight wife beater and took on some thug in a street brawl for money - and came away barely even bloodied.

-I don’t think ‘nice’ is necessarily a word I’d use, no, Dean tells Sam.   
-Good. No misleading notions then.   
-The thing is, though, Sam, I don’t think you’re as not-nice as you seem to think you are, either.   
-Well, I know myself a hell of a lot better than you know me.   
-True. But if … well, if you were as bad as all that you wouldn’t even be thinking about this. I’ve met some real bad people, and the thing about them is that they don’t give shit. It doesn’t even cross their minds that there could be a problem.   
-Philosophically speaking that’s probably true, Sam says in his soft mild tone, eyes drifting away from Dean and into dusty corners of the room. “You also need to get your head around the gray areas.”   
-My damned life is a gray area.

Sam smiles and it’s one of those small, honest things that just quirk one corner of his mouth.

-I think we’re looking at this from the wrong end, Sam says.   
-How do you mean?   
-You’re going over information that we know is tainted trying to figure it out when it’s obvious that whatever it is we really need has been edited. Classic poisoning the well. If we’re going to get anywhere we should be looking for what’s in the gaps, not the shit they’re feeding us.

That makes sense, Dean knows that.

-How do we do that?   
-We’ve got names, dates, places. We start looking past whatever it is your dad is trying to show you.   
-Common denominator, Dean agrees. “I’ve been thinking…”  
-No, we know the common denominator. Talents, influence, something supernatural.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. He’s getting so tired of this. If this was a job, this is where he’d give up and call Bobby.

-You think the talents are the common denominator, Dean says.   
-Or the demons. Or both. No point in looking for anything else. It’s probably a case of one thing leading to another, anyway. The talents are because of the demons or the demons are there for the talent.   
-And you’re fine with that?   
-No, Sam says with that slightly stern tone to his voice that makes Dean think of knife blades again. “I’m suggesting that your tainted intel is only going to lead you to the conclusion the person who gave it to you wanted you to reach.”

And, yes, well, Dean knows that. He knows what it is his father wants him to see here, that’s why he wants to go talk to Pastor Jim about all this. He’s got a much better handle on this kind of thing.

-I’m not sure I get what you’re shooting for here, Sam, Dean tells him honestly, because it’s late and he’s tired.   
-Directionality. All the research you were given is past to present. What we need to worry about is what happens right now and what it might lead to in the future. Assuming that’s not a shallow grave.

And that’s why Sam’s a fucking genius. He’s seen through dad’s rouse and he’s put his finger right on the thing that’s been bugging Dean since the moment he got the information he’s been staring at for days now. This is the kind of background information Dean would get to be able to close in on a target, and that’s not what they need right now.

 


	26. Direction

Sam is right about the directionality of hunts. They have an origin, a starting point and then there’s the middle where all the research and planning takes place and then there’s the unavoidable end. That’s where things get messy, bloody and noisy. Dean’s been looking at the information as the end point when it’s obvious now that dad already has an end point in mind and that’s where everything got so fucking complicated for Dean. Sam wants answers to things and that’s it for him, probably.

It changes everything. The way Sam sees things makes all the difference and it puts some of Dean’s thoughts into a much better order. It’s very soothing, somehow.

The next day they go to a library for a couple of hours so Sam can get some real time in with a connection that doesn’t cut out every time he tries to search for something. After a couple of hours of that Dean’s about to climb out of his skin. Sam looks up at him at about two in the afternoon and reads over his body like he’s just another open book.

-I need to move, Dean tells him with a shrug.

So Sam does a quick search and finds them a gym and then they go beat the shit out of a heavy bag until Dean’s hands are shaking and the sweat is soaking through the back of Sam’s t-shirt, which just happens to be one of Dean’s t-shirts again.

Sam moves really well. He’s fast and deceptively light on his feet and he hits with a lot of vicious pent-up energy that comes out in quick effective bursts. He’s consistent in a way that shows he’s had some instruction, but he’s still raw like it’s all new to him to have this kind of outlet. Dean likes the way his eyes stay sharp and his movements clean and efficient. He doesn’t like the way it occasionally looks like Sam wants to kill someone, but he isn’t going to let that bother him overmuch. Sam has issues. It’s not like Dean didn’t already know that.

They spar a little too, with full gear on, which means neither of them are pulling their punches as much as they would be if they were doing this bare-knuckled in some abandoned parking lot somewhere. Sam goes for his ribs more often than his face and Dean goes for the spaces Sam leaves when he’s overreaching. All in all, Dean’s wins because he’s heavier and more experienced, but Sam gives him enough of a run for his money that he’s feeling a little tenderized when he steps into the showers.

He doesn’t look over at all the miles of skin exposed next to him, just keeps his head down and his eyes closed and stands under the spray enjoying the endless supply of hot water beating down on him. He doesn’t think about anything at all, skin or scars, doesn’t let his thoughts stray even a little. He can feel the prickle of awareness of being looked at, though. He doesn’t play into it, but he still knows that Sam’s eyes are on him and he’s wondering a little about it. The thrum of adrenaline slowly dissipates as he soaps himself up and rinses off.

When Dean suggests a diner Sam makes a face and tells him he wants real food and not a plate of grease, so Dean leads them to a quiet looking Italian place and Sam orders fish and some weird pumpkin thing that Dean can’t even be bothered mocking. Dean gets himself some real lasagna and he’s happy about that, because it’s fucking orgasmic after the workout they just had. Their waiter seems to think they’re on a date and Dean just lets him. He seems to think it’s cute and Sam appears to find that entertaining.

-Alright there, Garfield? Sam asks when Dean’s working on snarfing down his plate of piping hot lasagna.   
-Shut up, delinquent, and eat your weird pumpkin thing, Dean shoots back.   
-Delinquent? Sam says mildly amused.   
-Kidney-shot, Sam. Only a delinquent goes for the kidneys when a man’s backs turned, Dean says and it only comes out a little garbled.   
-I didn’t know it was marquis of Queensbury rules, Sam tells him and neatly quarters off a forkful of weird pumpkin thing.

They don’t talk for a while after that, because the food is really fucking good.

-Question for you, Dean says when his plate is tragically bare.

He’s actually thinking about licking it. It was that good.

-Shoot, Sam says.   
-Where would you go to hide?

He’s been thinking about that for a while, actually. If things don’t go the way they want them to, the way Dean’s hoping they will, he needs to start thinking about alternatives.

-What am I hiding from? Sam asks and something a little sharper has crept into his tone now.   
-Hypothetical, Dean tells him, though it’s not. Not really.   
-Boston, maybe, Sam says with a shrug.   
-That your backup for Maine?  
-No, hypothetically. I’d head for a city big enough to swallow me. Somewhere I haven’t been.

Yeah, he would too. It’s the exact opposite of what Dean thinks any of his hunter contacts would do. They’re all of the Ted Kaczynski school of thought. It’s all lone cabins in the woods and strange little houses in the middle of nowhere without electivity. Which is, when you think about it, absolutely ridiculous. If you really want to get lost, find a city big enough to have its own boulevard of broken dreams and change your name. That’s how you do it. Dean grins.

-What’s funny? Sam asks sounding wary.   
-I have a friend in Boston.   
-Are we on the run?  
-Not yet.   
-So we’re still just road tripping? Sam asks.   
-Yeah, little brother. One glorious day at a time. Fun and games and the world’s biggest ball of twine. Roadside attractions and motels with off-season prices.   
-A thousand miles under the tires and waking up to your ugly mug every day, Sam fills in.   
-You’re charming, really, Dean says.   
-Delinquents often are, Sam tells him blithely. “Get the check, would you?”

Dean gets the check.

They go back to the motel and Dean sprawls out on his bed feeling the soft ache of a good work out and the slow mellow of an ever better meal making him drowsy. Sam sits down on his own bed, turns the TV on and speed-clicks through the available channels for a while.

-We heading out soon? Sam asks after a while.   
-In a day or two, maybe, Dean tells him.   
-What’s the holdup?

Dean’s waiting for things to start making sense, but he’s not about to tell Sam that. He doesn’t want to just run to the next name on the list of people he thinks might be able to help. He’s o for two so far and he’s not in a hurry. He needs to come up with some money, too, which means finding a nice poker game or playing some pool. Just as he’s about to answer that his phone rings. Dean has a split second’s worth of panic and then he picks up.

It’s a job. Not through dad or Bobby, this time, but Cal, a guy he knows mainly as an arms dealer. Cal’s mostly based locally, but he’s got trouble trying to work two things at the same time and asks for Dean’s help with one of them. He even gets to pick. Dean chooses ghosts. He would have picked the other thing, which sounds more complicated and more interesting if not for Sam, but he’s got Sam, so ghosts it is. Sam doesn’t even pretend to not be listening during the conversation and when Dean hangs up he looks at Dean expectantly. Dean thinks about this need Sam has to just keep moving. It’s even worse than Dean’s own restlessness. Sam’s feet are far itchier than his.

-So… looks like we’re hunting if you’re up for it, Dean says and for some reason he tries really hard to make it sound like it’s not a big thing, either way.   
-I’m up for it, Sam tells him with a sharp slice of a grin.

They head out the next morning.

Four days later Dean comes to in a basement with a chemical hangover.

He’s laying on his side with his hands taped behind his back and a foul sour taste in his mouth. His head is fuzzy and he feels black and blue. Probably the middle aged lady who opened the door to them and gave them iced grape juice because she was out of Hawaiian punch didn’t have the upper body strength to carry them down the stairs. She must have just dragged them. Like a sack of laundry, bumping every step, damn it.

Dean turns over really slowly and fights the roil of nausea that starts up. It feels like if he starts he’s going to throw up everything he’s ever eaten in his entire life.

Sam is sitting with his back to the wall, legs drawn up. His hands are behind his back, probably taped the same as Dean’s and he’s got his eyes closed. Sam’s face is completely blank. Dean knows that’s not a good blank, not a collected and together blank, but a very dangerous one. This is Sam cornered and locked up in a basement with his back to a wall. Not good.

-She killed her, Sam says without opening his eyes.   
-Okay, Dean croaks out.

He doesn’t really care about that right now. He doesn’t give a shit about the case that brought them here. And there really is a case, a job, a hunt. It’s just not what Dean thought it would be.

The preliminaries they’d done once they pulled into town all pointed in the same direction, something was definitely not right in the Wallace residence, they had figured that much out. The oldest daughter, Elise, died about five years ago under mysterious circumstance. The newspaper articles that Sam had pulled up at the local library had all stated that she had gone missing on her way to her boyfriend’s house. Then there had been a huge search for her that involved most of the community. It had dragged on for about a week before the girl was found dead in a scraggly patch of woods at the edge of town.

Mysteries like that are almost always solved the same way, or not solved, not resolved the same way, with a memorial service and a kind of communal grief that lasts about as long as it takes for some other, less individual tragedy to come to pass. Pin it on a drifter and move on. Dean knows, though, just like any seasoned cop will tell you, that its almost always someone the victim knows. It’s the boyfriend or someone in the family, or someone the girl talked to every day, or someone who went to the movie theatre where the girl worked on weekends.

Violent deaths lead to angry ghosts, though. That’s why they’re here. Elise had started showing up around town, standing in the middle of the road in her bloody summer dress staring at people. The girl was buried with full ceremony and they couldn’t just go dig up her grave and burn it before making sure about the whole thing, so Dean had wanted to talk to her mother before they did something drastic, just to try and figure out why her ghost was acting out now.

Sam had been on edge from the second they walked in the house. He’d been even more polite than usual to the bereaved mother, Julia Wallace, who seemed inoffensive enough at first glance. She had met them at the door with gardening gloves tucked in the back pocket of her jeans and hard lines carved into her careworn face. She had let them in and then sat them down and offered them something to drink, bringing back heavily iced grape juice. Dean drank his more as an act of misdirection than anything when he started asking questions about her daughter’s disappearance.

Dean had looked over at Sam once or twice hearing the crunch when he bit down on an ice cube and saw the quick flash of irritation that brought to Julia. Dean had tried to make his look say something about behaving, but Sam’s eyes had been completely indecipherable. He had been sitting with his back straight and his hands neatly folded around the glass, looking at the woman as if there were puzzle pieces missing, which there were, but Dean just hadn’t figured they were this big.

Next thing Dean knew he was getting dizzy.

-That’ll teach me to drink the Kool-Aid, Dean mutters and tries sitting himself up.   
-That’s why I just ate the ice, Sam says and opens his eyes to look at Dean.

Dean doesn’t know Sam all that well, but he knows him well enough to see that there’s a kind of banked down terror at the far back of his thoughts. However, there’s blind rage at the front. They really need to get out of here before they deal with that.

-How long was I out?   
-Not long. She went out about twenty minutes ago. I think she’s getting ready to do something even more monumentally stupid than lock us in the basement.   
-Like what?   
-Shot us both in the head and say it was attempted home invasion. Kill us on the quiet and get rid of our bodies. Borrow a wood chipper and fertilize the garden with our bones. I don’t know, but I don’t really feel like sticking around to find out.

Sam’s imagination is truly gruesome. He’s got a point, though. Dean starts trying to feel out his pockets.

-She took your knife. Mine too, Sam says.

Dean looks over at him. He hadn’t been packing because interviewing a grieving mother didn’t seem like a “bring a gun” kind of situation.

-What a bitch, Dean says, but he’s still too groggy for it to sound anything other than tired.

It doesn’t really matter, though, because Dean’s got something else up his sleeve. Or, more accurately, in his belt. It’s not the first time Dean’s been in situations like these, or worked with guys who have, so he’s got a very slim little blade concealed at the back of the belt in one of those nifty little ‘decorative’ plates. It’s all very secret agent, but he’s never been too proud to be a little geeky about shit like that. So he slowly works the blade out with half numb fingers and saws through the tape around his hands and then lurches over to Sam to do the same for him.

The house is quiet above them. The door to the basement is locked, but it’s not exactly high security grade, so they’re out of there in less than a minute. Sam is at Dean’s back. Dean watches him pick up their knives and wallets from a little knickknackey table by the door, out of one of those bowls you put spare change and car keys in and then they’re out of there.

-We’ve got to… Dean starts, but Sam cuts him off.   
-We’re going to the sheriff’s office, he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

Sam’s behind the wheel because Dean’s still too woozy to drive.

-What? Sam, no. We need to go.   
-I know that’s your first instinct, but not this time. We’re going to the sheriff’s office and we’re going to tell them about this.   
-Why?   
-Helen.

Dean tries to clear the cobwebs by shaking his head and he can see Sam clench his jaws in response.

-The other daughter, Sam clarifies.

Dean shuts the hell up after that. 


	27. Repercussions

The sheriff doesn’t really want to see them. The guy is built like a fucking bear and he’s got the beard and the heft to back his refusal, but Sam won’t hear it. Dean keeps thinking he should get in front of this, but Sam’s not backing down and Dean’s thoughts just can’t seem to un-muddle themselves.

Sam lays it all out like a court case. He cites newspaper articles by date and name of journalist. He pulls facts about Elise’s life, talks about her like he knows her, talks about her promise ring, her time as youth group leader at the local church. He talks over the sheriff’s “aren’t you a little young?” remarks saying they all know how the victim almost always knows the assailant. He talks about the oppressive atmosphere in the Wallace house and the fact that the younger daughter is following in her older sister’s footsteps to the point that she’s wearing her clothes and sleeping in her room and how the fuck Sam noticed that Dean has no idea.

Then he rounds it out by describing that Mrs. Wallace tried holding them captive in her basement after having slipped them something that must have been a sedative. Then Dean’s suddenly giving a blood sample for analysis and Sam is looking the big fucking bear of a sheriff dead in the eyes telling him “don’t let it happen again”. By that point, honestly, the sheriff is a little in love with Sam. So is the deputy and the secretary and the nurse they call over from the clinic next door.

It’s when the sheriff asks how they got involved in all this that Dean pipes up with a story about how they’re working on a series of articles about the missing teenagers of America and that’s about it. They’re heroes after that. Or, well, not heroes, because that’s not really what’s going on here, but they are definitely in the good-guy column and that’s all that it takes. They won’t be around for the trial, if it ever comes to that. Their real names won’t even be on the paper work, but that doesn’t mean that justice won’t be served. More importantly, the younger sister won’t end up dead in the woods for having a boyfriend.

Watching Sam like this, calmly laying the whole thing out without slipping up even once on who they are and why they’re here and what they’re doing and why they’re doing it is … something else. Dean knows how hard it is to get the authorities to listen. Most of the time he kind of relies on them to be a little slow on the uptake and too mired in small town concerns to care, so Sam’s approach is completely out of his wheelhouse. Once Sam’s gotten their attention he uses it to the full with a kind of cool confidence that Dean doesn’t think he’s even seen his dad have in somewhat similar situations. Once Sam grows up enough to be able to use a fake FBI badge he’s going to be terrifying. Not that he isn’t already.

-You shouldn’t get yourself involved in situations like that, the sheriff says when he’s done grilling Sam on the details.   
-I know, sir. We don’t, usually. This one, though. It just. Everything about it was just wrong. And once we got to the house…

The sheriff gives Sam a long studying look and then leans forward, putting one big paw down heavily on his desk.

-Your instincts are really good. You should consider a career in law enforcement.

Dean tries hard not to scoff. It’s actually not as hard as it should be, because his head is now cleared enough to have gone from fuzzy to pounding migraine. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep for about forty eight hours.

-Thank you, sir, Sam says in his polite tone, and Dean can tell it’s actually pretty sincere. “I hope you don’t mind that we won’t be able to stick around. We’ve got an itinerary and a deadline to keep, so.”  
-No, that’s fine. I have your contact information.

The sheriff leans back in his chair again and looks from Sam to Dean and then back to Sam.

-I was in on the search, you know. I think everyone around here was. I remember how distraught Mrs. Wallace was, how she just kept crying and pleading for us to find her little girl. No one here would ever have thought she’d have anything to do with it.

Dean thinks to himself that that’s the mark of a decent guy. Someone who, even though he must have seen some bad shit in his time, doesn’t want to believe his neighbor is capable of something like that. He thinks it says a lot about himself, and more importantly about Sam, that they are the kind of guys who can. Sam just nods and then stands to shake the sheriff’s hand and walks out. Dean gets up more slowly and for a second the sheriff and Dean lock eyes and there’s a moment’s worth of odd understanding there, like they both know they just witnessed something quite extraordinary. That the young man who just left the office is something unusual and remarkable. Then Dean gathers himself up and heads out after Sam.

They drive away that afternoon, leave before the shit hits the fan. Elise’s ghost won’t be trouble anymore. She’s been trying to protect her sister and call attention to her killer and she’s got that now, so she should be able to rest. If she’s still causing problems after the whole thing is over, Dean’s going to give the case back to Cal. It’s not like they can go about desecrating graves after having shook hands with the local sheriff. That could get awkward.

-How did you know? Dean asks later just before he passes out on the neatly made bed in their latest motel room.   
-People always overlook the mother, Sam says and his voice is soft. “Think it’s a subconscious thing. Like a mother wouldn’t do that to her own child, wouldn’t cause her own child harm. It’s a part of our cultural ideal that the mother is always good.”   
-You saw something, Dean says.   
-Her statement didn’t add up. Everything about that family was. Controlled. You know? And the house. And her. Even her gardening gloves weren’t dirty. Those embroidered things on the walls with the sayings on them, they were all about purity and family and God’s punishment. Enough to make me nervous.   
-Why’s that? Dean mutters, more or less slurring, half asleep, but still interested.  
-There’s a point where it all becomes too neat and clean. You get real good at picking up on that kind of thing when you’re a foster kid.

Dean’s almost out now, he’s reaching for sleep and it’s reaching back, welcoming and beckoning.

-You’re my brother now, Dean says and he’s not sure what he means by that.   
-Yeah, okay, Sam says, indulgent and obviously smiling. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

Dean wakes up sometime in the middle of the night and when he looks over towards Sam’s bed, he’s not in it. Dean goes from pleasantly dozing to wide awake so fast his heart can’t really keep up. He must look kind of crazy as he whips around looking for the kid before finding the bundled shadow of Sam sitting wedged in the far corner of the room with his back to the wall and his knees bent, making himself so small it’s kind of strange to see.

Dean stumbles out of bed and towards Sam before he’s even caught up with himself all the way. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, where he’s going, but he knows he needs to do something. When he’s right in front of Sam the kid looks up at him with a snarl on his lips.

-Don’t, Sam tells him and Dean falters at the last step.

He carefully crouches down in front of Sam and he’s reaching, fuck, he’s not even thinking, doesn’t know how to think with all the adrenaline that just dumped in his system when he woke up and couldn’t see the kid where he was supposed to be. Sam flinches away from him, but it’s not fearful, it’s angry.

-Don’t fucking touch me, Sam grits out, dark and furious.

Dean stops himself. He blinks a few times and tries to get his brain to reboot.

-What’s going on, he asks knowing it’s a deeply stupid question.

Sam doesn’t answer, just glares at him and Dean realizes he’s boxing Sam in, so he shuffles over and sits down next to him instead, not close enough to touch, but close enough to make a grab for the kid if he needs to.

-Nightmare? Dean asks.

Sam still doesn’t say anything and the thing is, Dean can actually feel the ire pouring off him like static electricity charging the air.

-I knew. I fucking knew the second we walked in the door. And then you just …I faked passing out and lay there like a sack of potatoes because I couldn’t fucking think. I should have done something.   
-Shit, Sam, no. I’m the dumb ass. I didn’t even suspect her.

Sam makes a disgruntled, disgusted noise. Dean leans his head back against the wall and tries to get his heart rate back to something closer to normal. Jesus, the kid’s got the worst habit of scaring the shit out of him in ways he can’t predict. The carpet feels nubbly under his ass and he’s kind of abstractedly disgusted by sitting on the floor in just his boxers. It takes about five breaths for Dean to catch up with the fact that they’re awake in the middle of the night and sitting on the floor while Sam blames himself for things that really aren’t his fault.

-What was she like? Sam asks suddenly.   
-Who?  
-Your mom.

Dean tenses up. He did not see that one coming.

-I don’t know, Dean says, because that’s the truth.

If you believe John, Dean’s mother was a saint. The most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. The kind of bright shining light that could make a man want to take down the moon just to give it to her. Slay dragons. All that stuff. Dean’s seen the picture dad carries around in his wallet, the kind of badly focused, slightly faded amateur shot that can’t really capture anything of note. Blonde. Pretty in a wholesome kind of way. Sweet smile. It’s about as meaningful to Dean as a laundry detergent commercial. He was four, he doesn’t remember. He wishes he did. It would make all the things they’ve done, him and dad, easier to deal with. Make dad easier to deal with too, probably.

-Dad told me once that she used to sing Beatles songs instead of lullabies. Called her a firecracker.   
-How old were you when she was killed?   
-Four. Four and a half, maybe.   
-…’m sorry. You don’t like talking about her.   
-No, it’s okay. It’s just, I don’t remember. I keep thinking I should, ‘cause of my dad. But I was four. Who remembers anything from when they were four? Still, she’s there, you know? In everything I’ve ever done, she’s always there.

Sam rubs at his face and makes another noise that Dean can’t really categorize. It sounds like frustration and anger tinged with sorrows and regrets and a shitload of other stuff that Dean’s not up to parsing right now.

-One of my foster mothers pushed me down the stairs and broke my arm so she could get her hands on the good prescription painkillers, Sam says.

Dean glances over at the complimentary alarm clock on the closest nightstand.

-You’re breaking my heart at four seventeen in the morning, kid, Jesus Christ, he says and shuffles around a little so his shoulder is just touching Sam’s.

Sam doesn’t lean into him, but he doesn’t snap and push him away either. Dean counts that as a win.

-She had those things on the walls. Those embroidered fucking sayings, bible verses. Talked a lot about sin and damnation, that one. She was big on sin. And how all little boys were dirty, Sam tells him.   
-That’s how you knew?   
-I got the same vibe from that house. That too-clean, too-close thing. There’s always something nasty underneath that. That’s why I’m so pissed at myself. I knew, I knew and I should have said something.   
-Why didn’t you? Dean asks.

Sam glances over at him, pointedly.

-Shit, because of me? Dean blurts out. “I walked into that like a complete idiot.”   
-You keep telling me you have more experience than I do, Sam says, shrugging.   
-Not with everything, obviously. Look, I know better than to take candy from strangers, but I didn’t see that coming. Not at all. I know what makes a pissed off ghost come out to play and I know that family is the first biggest cause. And I still didn’t keep my guard up. I fucked up.   
-I fucked up too. I can’t afford to do that.

Dean rubs at his eyes, thinking tiredly that Sam is about as beautifully stubborn as you could expect him to be.

-Oh, we could do this all night long, Dean tells him. “Let’s not get into who screwed up worse where and how. We’re both alive, Elise’s ghost is at rest, most likely. No one got killed. No one got arrested. Or, no one got arrested that shouldn’t be. No one got chucked in the wood chipper. All in all it’s a good result.”   
-She roofied us. Both of us. Probably did that to her kids all the time. That’s why it wore off so fast on you. She was used to smaller bodies, less muscle.   
-Jesus. You stay up at night thinking about this? Dean asks, because now he’s starting to get it. “Listen, we just talked about this. Direction, right? And assumptions, let’s not forget about those. I wasn’t looking in the right direction, because, like the lazy dumb ass I am, I thought this as going to be an easy salt’n’burn.”  
-Yeah, that’s what I mean. We _just_ talked about this.   
-So, next time we don’t make that mistake. We’ll just be smarter.   
-We?   
-Yeah, of course we. Don’t start that again.

There’s subtle answering pressure against his arm now, Sam leaning away from the corner and just ever so slightly into Dean instead. They just sit there for a while. Dean can feel a draft from somewhere pour over him and goose bumps rising on his legs. Sam is still fully dressed and tense and miserable, but that’s probably not too surprising.

-When you first woke up in the basement you had this oh-shit look on your face, Sam says quietly.

Dean thinks about it. Yeah, he probably did. Unknown surroundings, hands tied, not knowing what the hell was coming next, all that. Wasn’t what had him scared, though. No, that was just the idea of Sam locked up in a basement with his hands tied, that’s what had flooded Dean with enough fight-or-flight that his body had overrode the drugs, whatever the hell they were, and got him moving. Scared for Sam. Scared of how bad it would be for Sam, because no matter how calm he had looked, Dean had known that was just a mask.   
  
-Yeah, let’s not do that again, Dean agrees.   
-Wasn’t planning on it, Sam tells him.   
-And next time you feel there’s something off, just tell me.   
-I’m good about that usually, just… This time it was all just… I don’t know. Wrong.   
-Actually, Dean says and bumps Sam’s shoulder again, more sure this time that he won’t get clocked for it. “That’s enough. Just tell me you think it’s wrong.”   
-Okay.

Dean leans his head back against the wall for a second and then starts pushing himself up to standing. Sam stays where he is, giving Dean a long, evaluating kind of look from under his lanky hair. Dean leaves him there and goes to take a shower. Might as well, they’re up now anyway. 


	28. Eighteen

Dean’s still looking into some of the kids from dad’s research kind of idly. There’s really not a lot there, by hunter standards. None of them have police records, real trouble in school or anything like that. One or two of them are academically inclined, but none of them are gifted the way Sam is. It’s frustrating.

-You should call, Sam says.  
-I…uh…  
-No, really. You should call him. He’s bound to be expecting it, Sam says and he sounds so reasonable, so calm about it.   
-You know what he’s likely to say, right?  
-Doesn’t matter. Talk to him. It’ll just get worse if you don’t.

Sam has a point. John is a patient man when he needs to be, but he’s not likely to be patient about all this, which, honestly, makes Dean want to do the exact opposite of calling him. He’s not sure what that would be, but he’s got crazy ideas about dying his hair and changing his name. Sam’s too. And, hey, Boston could be nice this time of year. You never know.

Instead of thinking that all the way through to the end, Dean looks Sam over. Sam is currently sitting in the windowsill with a book on his lap, feet tucked in neatly at the opposite corner and nothing giving away what he’s really thinking. Dean is not fool enough to believe that Sam’s stopped beating himself up for that thing with the roofies, not yet, and there are just too many fucking things that they don’t talk about. This situation with dad shouldn’t be one of them.

Dean picks up his phone, because no time like the present, right? He’s not going to lie and say he’s not a little bit relieved when the call goes to voicemail. He leaves a short message, just saying he’s got the information and he’s looking into it and nothing else has changed. He doesn’t ask for dad to call him back, hangs up with the standard goodbye of “stay safe” and then looks at Sam as if to say “there, happy now?” Sam gives him a small, tight smile that says he’s anything but.

It’s not like they don’t know all this is bound to come up, because it will, because it has to. Dean’s too far off the reservation for dad to actually forgive him for this and the fallout probably isn’t going to be pretty, but Dean has a hard time trying to figure out how to tell the kid that it’s been a long time coming. It has. It’s just been brought into sharp focus now that he’s got Sam… That didn’t come out right. Now that Sam is with him. Okay, that’s barely better.

-What are we doing today? Sam asks.   
-I need to find a game, hustle up some cash.

Sam unfolds himself and puts his feet firmly on the floor before locking on Dean with another of those intense studying looks.

-Okay. You said you know a good hacker, Sam says.   
-…Yeah?  
-I … I have some money. It’s going to be tricky to get at it, though. Maybe if I could use your hacker friend.   
-What are we talking about here? Dean asks.   
-It’s a really long story.

Everything with Sam always is, Dean’s finding out. This is just weird, though.

-Sam… not to sound like an asshole, but it don’t really seem like you have money.

Sam’s jaw clenches. Then he smiles and this time it’s kind of a rouge feral wild thing grin.

-Getting to it is going to be tricky, but I have money.   
-If you say so, Dean says and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been around Sam for long enough to know he doesn’t kid around about stuff like this he would have called bullshit.   
-So can you get in touch with your hacker friend?   
-Uh, yeah, that’s going to involve a drive. Paranoid fucker, doesn’t trust phones.   
-Where are we going?   
-Cambridge, Massachusetts.   
-MIT? Really? Sam says with a pleased upwards cadence.

Dean just nods and goes to pack up his stuff.

Now, see, Ash… Ash is a little out there. Dean met him in a mosh pit. As much as you can meet anyone in a mosh pit. Completely out of the blue this guy with a very respectable mullet handed him a beer after having stomped all over Dean’s feet with his big ass steel toed worker boots. He was apologetic about that, which Dean figured was very well-mannered of him considering the circumstance. He took one look at Dean’s authentic vintage ACDC t-shirt and declared that they were going to be great friends. Dean had looked at him, eyebrows all the way up to his hairline and thought that the guy was out of his fucking mind, high as a kite and completely batshit crazy. All of which is true.

Ash is also a genius.

He is a genius of a completely different stripe than Sam, but he definitely is one. He’s got the personality and the wardrobe of a old school roadie, but he’s currently at MIT building robots. At least that’s what he told Dean last time they talked and Dean’s got no reason to doubt him. Ash is the one Dean calls when he needs to talk out the theory of how to build an EMF meter out of an old walkman, or get information from official databases that no one should be able to crack, or argue about which Metallica bassist is better. Dean looks over at Sam in the shotgun seat and thinks that Ash and Sam are either going to get on like a house on fire, or they’re going to hate each other’s guts.

It takes all of four minutes for Sam and Ash to start talking in the kind of rapid fire geek speak that leaves Dean in the dust. He can’t help smiling to himself, thinking this is going to be fucking awesome, and goes out to get them some PBRs.

-Where’d you find that one? Ash asks when Sam’s taking a bathroom break.   
-Skate park, Dean says, thinking Ash is going to find that really funny.

Ash grins, shakes his head and takes another healthy sip from his beer. Then he levels a gaze at Dean that reminds him just how fucking smart the guy really is.

-That kid should be in school, man. That kid has a mind like a revolving space station. That kid could give me a run for my money.   
-This kid is actually eighteen, you dick, Sam says from the door in a sharp tone before elbowing his way past Dean to get to Ash and put him in a headlock. “Now you’re going to help me out with my little problem you fucking redneck piece of shit or I’m going to shave your head bald when you pass out from all that crap beer.”

Dean’s eyes go so wide he’s honestly not sure they won’t pop out at some point.

-Violence, violence, Ash admonishes, trying to fend Sam off. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

By that point Sam is brawling with Ash on the floor, rolling and kicking and pinching and fighting like a twelve-year old while grinning at Dean whenever they’re facing each other and Dean’s laughing helplessly, because this is another version of Sam, a wild rambunctious kid that Dean can see scrabbling in the grass of some scrappy backyard in the deep south somewhere and Dean can’t help it, he just likes the kid. Any version of him.

Ash is fighting a loosing battle, because Sam is fast and wily and slippery and he’s completely remorseless about pinching a nipple to get out of a hold. Ash is smiling so wide he can’t hide his crooked front tooth. He’s having the time of his life, chaos all around, and Dean thinks Sam is playing this so perfectly, so incredibly right.

-Okay, alright, let’s get down to business, Ash says, rights himself and imperiously flicks his hair back.

Sam is laying on the floor, a little breathless and flushing with exertion. He’s got rugburn on one cheek and a lazy grin going. He doesn’t even bother sitting up when he starts talking.

-Okay, so I have an account in my name and the problem is that it’s under a kind of guardianship despite the fact that I’m old enough now to get at it. I want the money without having the guardian involved. I figure the best thing to do would be transfer the guardianship over to someone else or…  
-I’ll do you one better, Ash says without even letting Sam finish the thought.

He sets up his Frankenstein’s monster computer and waits while it does something probably very complicated and highly illegal if Dean knows him at all. Ash then cracks his knuckles with all the showmanship of a street performer and starts typing.

-Hot digits? Ash says to Sam and Sam finally gets up off the floor and goes to stand beside him peering down at the screen.

Sam gives the name of the bank and the numbers and one of his names, again the John something-or-other, which doesn’t even seem to faze Ash. He’s typing away at a speed that leaves Dean dizzy.

-Okay, so I’ll tap this and then bounce it over a couple of continents, maybe the Caymans, and then I’ll… oh, that’s a lot of moolah, Ash says flicking a glance at Dean and then looking back at Sam. “You’re going to buy me some nachos for this. With cheese.”   
-You do this for me? I’ll buy the whole fucking nacho stand.   
-Sweet. Where do you want your green to go?

Sam looks at Dean and there’s a gleam in his eyes that might be the reflected light from the screen in front of him, something blue and icy flickering there and the look on his face is so pleased, so incredibly cat-got-the-cream that Dean’s a little startled by it at first and then he can’t help but smile at him. Dean’s sitting on Ash’s bed, beer in hand, watching two geniuses at work doing something that could probably land them in federal prison and they’re both having a grand old time.

Dean’s life is strange.

-It’ll take … thirty four hours to do this right, make it untraceable. You want it untraceable, right? Ash asks Sam and Sam nods. “I’ll get to work and you keep the beer and nachos flowing.”

That’s exactly what they do. Dean plays around a little with a toy sized model robot dog thing that Ash has sitting in his bookcase. The servos are a little off on it and Dean tinkers just to not get too bored while Sam and Ash powwow. By the time Dean gets sent out for provisions he’s got the little dog thing moving more smoothly. Dean calls it Rover. Ash tells him its name is “Vincent Van Dog” and Sam cracks up.

It’s a strange two days. Spending any length of time with Ash is always weird, because the guy has a lot of energy and a lot of friends that all look like they don’t know whether to clap him on the back or flinch away from him. Ash has a temper, but he’s mostly just got this incredibly wicked sense of humor that’s completely off the wall. He and Sam get into heated debates about things that are way above Dean’s pay grade, which leaves Dean feeling a little like the idiot cousin, but frankly, he’s pretty used to that by now.

It isn’t until he’s laying flat on the floor in Ash’s room with his jacket for a pillow trying to catch a couple of hours of sleep that it dawns on him. He turns his head and looks at Sam who is camped out right next to him. Sam looks back at him, small crease of a question forming on his brow.

-You’re eighteen? Dean asks.

Sam just looks at him and smiles a faded kind of smile.

-Maybe.   
-You’re not sure? Dean says before the implication of that hits home.   
-Can’t be sure.

Dean feels kind of gutted.

-There should have been a party, Dean mutters.   
-Don’t want one, Sam tells him and there’s a low rasp to his voice now. “I know you think you made my life more complicated since all this started, but the truth is it was complicated long before I met you. This is all a part of that. I know you’ve been wanting to ask.”

What Dean really wants to ask is why Sam had been living on the streets. If he had this kind of ace up his sleeve the whole time, why not do something about it instead of giving blowjobs and street fighting and sleeping in shelters to survive.

Why get in a car with a stranger?   
Why get in the car with a stranger he knew had a gun?

-I never really asked, did I? Dean says and thinks that’s probably incredibly thoughtless of him. “About any of it.”   
-I wouldn’t tell you anyway, Sam says matter-of-factly.

And then he reaches out and pats Dean squarely on the chest, right over his heart. Sam’s maybe a little drunk right now. They’ve been pouring down beer like water for more than a day while Ash works his magic. The floor is surprisingly comfortable, and that’s never a good sign. Sam is looking at him with this fond expression on his face and then he turns over on his side and seems to drop off into sleep like someone cracked him over the back of the head with a sock full of pennies.

Dean can feel eyes on him and turns his head to look at Ash who is looking right back at him with a _look_ on his face. Dr Badass with his mullet and his flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off and his 162 point IQ looking concerned for Dean.

-What I’m doing right now is laundering clean money, he says in a low voice. “I don’t know what kind of shit you’re in, but you’re in it up to your pretty eyeballs.”  
-Yeah, man, I know.

Ash clicks around a little, but even Dean can tell it’s for show.

-Is it worth it? Ash asks.   
-He’s worth it, Dean tells him with the same kind of surety he’s had all along.   
-I think he is, Ash agrees. “Papa Bear know?”   
-Some of it.

Then Ash’s computer makes some kind of “hey, look at me” noise and Ash is momentarily distracted. Dean rolls over too, facing the back of Sam’s head and closes his eyes.

Dean has a lot of smart people in his life. He’s kind of drawn to it, he realizes. He likes Ash’s wild looking chaos intelligence with all its honed application. He likes Bobby’s kind of nebulous all-over badass knowledge hunting kind and his dad’s pattern recognition kind. Sam is, again, something else. Maybe it’s because he’s got something raw at the heart of it, something angry and coiled and ice cold at the same time, like he’s always keeping something back, moving three steps ahead and still holding on to things that anyone else would have been more than willing to unload.

When Dean wakes up some hours later Sam and him are sleeping back-to-back, pressed up against each other so close Dean can feel the sharp ridge of his spine pushing into Dean with every breath he’s taking. It’s primitive, that need to have someone at your back, Dean knows. It’s a very basic and animal thing. He’s enjoying waking up a hell of a lot more than he had thought he would with something like a hangover and the overall stiffness of having slept on the floor. Ash is crashed out on the bed with one foot hanging over the edge and Dean knows that means the job is done.


	29. Context

Dean thinks about that half-drunk dismissal of Sam’s “I wouldn’t tell you anyway” when they get back on the road. It’s not the way Sam blew the whole thing off, it’s his right to keep stuff to himself, but the tense bothers Dean. He said “tell”, he said he wouldn’t tell. Dean was a little drunk and so was Sam, but trust is a two way street and Dean thinks it’s kind of disingenuous of Sam to play that game now.

And the thing is… the thing is, Dean doesn’t really think about things this way, he doesn’t go over some throwaway comment and turn it over and over in his mind, like some high school girl. It just hit wrong. And he’s driving, which means his brain idles along and puts things together while he’s busy keeping an eye on his surroundings and shifting and listening for changes in the way she sits on the road and just … all of that? It helps him think, even when he’s not really thinking. If that makes sense. It’s like his brain is working on its own and not really letting him in on it until he’s suddenly finding himself opening his mouth and talking about things he didn’t even know were on his mind in the first place.

-You had a plan, Dean says when they’re stuck in traffic outside Columbus.

Sam looks over at him.

-Context? Sam asks.  
-When we met. You had a plan. You weren’t just running.

Sam keeps his eyes on Dean, Dean can feel it. He glances over and Sam’s expression is neutral. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot going on there, because there certainly always is, but Sam’s not showing him anything. After a few seconds he makes a thoughtful noise.

-I’ll tell you about the money. It’s a good story, you’ll like it. Kind of relevant, Sam offers.

Dean rests one hand on his own thigh and leaves the other on the wheel, just balancing his wrist there. They’re not going anywhere right now, so he settles in, relaxes back. He knows his whole body is saying “story time” and Sam seems to think that’s kind of amusing.

-Once upon a time… Dean starts, just to keep Sam entertained.

Sam goes with it. Dean wasn’t sure he would.

-There was a woeful orphan boy who was locked in a terrible dungeon guarded by an ogre and his evil minions. When the little orphan boy would not give in to the ogre’s demands he was punished and caged in the henhouse. When the dungeon got lit on fire, the brave little boy and his two companions were spared the flames and wound up in county medical. As he lay there gasping on the bed, his poor little lungs aching and his fever making him see spots, three wise men appeared in his doorway.

Dean is caught up in it now, looking at Sam and forgetting all about the gridlock.

-Go on, Dean says.  
-They promised the boy that he would be looked after and they apologized for what had happened and they brought with them a teddy bear and a bouquet of balloons to make up for it.

Dean’s still not seeing what it is about this that is making Sam’s eyes spark like it’s really funny. Dean tamps down on the almost instinctual uprising of anger in his stomach at the thought of that fucking asshole who actually whipped Sam and then caged him like an animal.

-The boy was a skinny little runt, you have to understand. He was pale and sick and a stiff breeze could probably have knocked him over. He pushed the button for the bed, so he could sit up and took the oxygen mask off and then he thanked the three wise men, one of which was actually a lady from the CPS, for the lovely gifts and then he told them in his politest voice that if they didn’t give him everything he asked for he was going to blow the lid of the pot of shit stew that they were up to their necks in with every official agency that he could think of and then he would go to the press and make sure that he did all his interviews in the room they were in now and tell the nice journalists that the lovely bouquet of balloons he had gotten was more than enough to compensate for the many, many months of torture he had been subjected to. Oh, and if they wouldn’t mind leaving their cards? He wanted to make sure the press got their names right.

Sam is smiling outright now. Dean’s just staring at him.

-You blackmailed government officials? Dean hears himself saying.  
-You didn’t really think I’d just let them get away with that, did you? Sam asks and there’s dark satisfaction to his tone, a kind of smugness.  
  
Dean figures it’s justified. Sam really is vicious and smart and he’s got the kind of backbone that is actually a little scary if you ever wind up on the wrong side of it. Sam burns cold and he’s the kind that keeps it lit for a long, long time.

-They must have loved that, Dean says.  
-They weren’t too pleased, but they knew I had them by the short and curlies. I looked like I’d been tortured.  
-You had been tortured, Dean points out.  
-Yeah, but the point is, I _looked_ like it. Someone should have noticed. They had regular inspections, I was bussed to school. Someone, somewhere should have seen what was going on in that place long before it got that bad. And I had evidence, man. I _was_ evidence at that point. My medical record was really detailed and thorough. I made sure of it. Lots and lots of pictures.  
-So they paid out? Dean asks and thinks that’s the worst thirty pieces of silver he’s heard of in a long time.  
-Nothing that simple. I told them what I wanted, and yeah, money for college was one of those things, but I had other requirements too before I would sign their non disclosures and waivers and what-not.  
-Let me guess, emancipation papers?  
-Again, not that simple, but yeah, all that was to be put in the works with a long term plan for a resolution without contest and a lot of other shit that I had been thinking about, like moving and suppressing my record. What I wanted was a clean slate. A chance at a future.  
-They gave you what you wanted, didn’t they? Dean asks, shaking his head in disbelief.  
-Mostly. I had to concede some stuff, like a guardian, a kind of in loco parentis deal. That’s how come I couldn’t get at the money.  
-We’re not blowing your college fund, kid. I’d rather hustle pool, Dean says without thinking.  
-I know, Sam agrees and he seems to deflate a little, looks tired. “But until what’s going on now is resolved I don’t see that happening.”  
-I’ll get you there. You had admission papers, right?  
-I’ve been working on it since before Maine. It’s… complicated.

And, yeah, Dean can believe that, because everything with this kid is. Dean tries to picture it, the skinny little kid wheezing for breath in a hospital bed in the kids’ ward with its fake cheerful wallpaper taking on the lawyers and vultures that must have come for him as soon as he was coherent enough to sit up. He knows how fucking cynical the world can be to those that don’t have anyone in their corner. They must have walked in there thinking they could just railroad this kid into keeping his mouth shut, offer him a teddy bear and a pat on the head and say they were sorry and then get him to put his childish scrawl on some shut-the-fuck-up papers that exonerated everyone involved. He thinks of the bleak satisfaction Sam must have gotten out of the looks on their faces. Or, maybe not so bleak. Maybe the satisfaction was more of a blood red thing, because Sam certainly seems to think it’s a good story.

It is, too. Kind of. It’s not David and Goliath, not at all. It’s more of a death by a thousand papers cuts kind of deal. Oh, it must have stung when they realized how badly they’d underestimated the kid. Dean’s always had an affinity for the underdog.

-It’s my money, Sam says. “I can do what I want with it.”  
-Yeah, lord knows I can’t stop you. Stubborn little shit, Dean says and he hears it in his own voice, the pride, the amusement.

Sam’s expression shifts into something surprised for a split second and then he grins.

-Best part is, the story still got out. Kids who had been there before, kids who aged out, kids who were still hurting, they all came out of the woodworks after they heard about the fire, when they knew he was dead.  
-You already had that figured, didn’t you? Dean asks.  
-Yeah, I did. Some of the stuff they did there, not just… not just the whippings and that. They’d give the fat kids enemas and make them run miles three times a day, they force fed kids with eating disorders… they put kids on punishment for talking too loud or not talking enough. I can’t even. It’s not the kind of shit you just get over.

Sam walked out with his back straight and his head held high no matter that he was in a hospital bed with pneumonia and infected wounds. And that’s on top of thinking he was loosing his mind and hearing voices. Jesus, this kid.

-I can’t really be sorry that it happened. The way… no, that’s not what I mean. It’s like. It had to happen that way. Which is so fucked up, and which is why I don’t always feel like I can trust myself to be a good person.  
-Of course you’re a good person, Sam. A little messed up, yeah, but after what you’ve been through… You get a pass.

Sam barks out a short laugh that doesn’t really have a lot of humor behind it.

-You really shouldn’t give me a pass on things, Dean. I’ll take it and run a mile, Sam tells him and his voice does that thing it does sometimes where he sounds older, harder, so fucking sure.

Sam has slouched down now too. He’s sitting turned slightly towards Dean with his head back on the headrest and his gaze half lidded but still sharp. His legs are spread and his hands are in his lap and he looks like six different kinds of exactly what Dean likes. Sharp, lanky kid with too smart eyes and a way about him that makes him the interesting kind of dangerous.

-I honestly don’t know why I tell you all this stuff man, Sam says after a long silence.  
-Yeah, you do.  
-I had mandatory counseling for a while and I swear I never told that bitch a tenth of what I tell you.  
-Well, I’m not in it for a paycheck and I’m not going to tell you how to deal with your shit. I put my money where my mouth is, Dean tells him with a shrug.  
-That you do. I figure it’s time I returned the favor.

The traffic finally starts moving again and Dean blinks twice before refocusing on the task at hand.

They’re going, they’re actually heading towards another hunt right now, because Dean made a call to Pastor Jim and found out that he was on some kind of retreat. Knowing Jim that could mean anything from him being on an active hunt to him being buried in some musty old tome somewhere at a research library to him actually being in a convent, communing with his higher power. Either way, he’s out of reach.

It feels like a storm is gathering force around them, there’s no doubts about that, but there’s really nothing much Dean can do about it, so he does what he always does. He tries to keep his head down and he hunts. Not a lot of thought goes into that decision, not really. For as long as Dean can remember that’s been the base tenet of his whole existence, the ever present refrain of his father’s voice in his head “people are dying, we have to do what we can, we’re the only one’s who can do this”. Maybe that is true, maybe it is all about that. But, then, maybe that’s just the only way his dad knew how to deal with the shit that happened to him and Dean’s just collateral. It really doesn’t matter much. People are dying. There are things only hunters can do.

Then there’s the kid in the shotgun seat. The ever unraveling mystery. Dean has a moment of realization where it hits him that Sam really is nothing like what he thought the kid would be when he picked him up off the cracked concrete and carried him to the car, bleeding, passed out and so strangely self-contained. Dean likes to think that he’s getting to know the kid, but the more he finds out the more he understands that he doesn’t know him at all. Maybe that’s the way it works. Dean doesn’t have a frame of reference for this kind of thing. He’s had friends before, hunters he’s befriended, people he’s met, but he’s never had this kind of intense bond growing like a goddamned weed and putting down roots way down deep in his chest.

Sam has more or less commandeered the laptop, making it his property. He’s on that thing whenever they stop for coffee and food. Kid still drinks more coffee than anyone Dean’s ever met. When they get to the town that has had a slew of strange animal attacks Dean sets them up in a motel where the rooms are actually nicer than anything they’ve had for a while, at least since that off-season prices place. He’s not going to let Sam spend his money on food and accommodations, though, and he tells him as much. Sam makes a face at him and tells him to stop being an idiot.

-I’d rather not have to scrape you off some bar floor with a stab wound in your gut, Sam tells him.  
-Like that’ll ever happen, Dean shoots back.  
-You came pretty close at that biker bar in Kansas.  
-Close… that guy wouldn’t have gotten within a mile of me. He was way too drunk and way too fat and way too slow.

Sam just gives him a pissy look.

-Is this going to be some kind of macho thing for you? Sam asks.  
-It’s not about that.

And it isn’t. Sam went through hell, and that money might be his payoff, dirty money, blood money, but it’s still supposed to be his ticket to something better, he goddamned said so himself and Dean’s not going to let the kid spend it on crap motel rooms and burgers. Especially not when he didn’t sign up for any of this in the first place.

-You’ve done a lot for me, Dean, Sam says and now his voice has that sincere note to it that Dean’s starting to recognize he’s pretty helpless against. “Let me carry some of the burden, okay?”  
-You really are a menace, Dean tells him trying to keep his gaze directed elsewhere, because he knows the sincere eyes are worse than the voice.  
-It’s just money. And Ash set me up with some pretty smart shit, dude. I’m not going broke anytime soon.

Dean flicks a glance at him. Sam is looking right back at him, and yeah, that’s the expression Dean knows he’s already folding to.

-Okay, fine. Don’t look at me like that.

Sam just smiles and shrugs.

It’s not exactly about pride. It’s not like Dean hasn’t hustled and stolen and picked pockets and done stuff that’s morally dubious and ethically questionable to keep himself afloat. He’d do all that and more for Sam too. Has been doing it actually. It’s worked out pretty good so far.

Dean wonders a little, later, when he’s in the shower. How many steps ahead is Sam on a regular basis? How much of it was a chess game to him? Did he lie in a hospital bed thinking exactly how it was all going to play out, planning each step, calculating the odds? Was is opportunistic? Just grabbing on to the slimmest chance and running with it? Thinking about what he knows about the kid, probably not. Sam cut a deal to give himself a chance and he knew the cost, in terms of his own blood and the blood of others. That kind of ruthlessness is a whole world away from what Dean’s used to, even thinking about things he’s done himself and seen other hunters do. Yeah, Sam is someone you want to have in your corner. And you want to make sure to keep him there.


	30. Guts

Dean must have watched a thousand crappy horror movies on a thousand late nights in shady motels all over the flat fifty. It’s not like there’s anything human imagination can come up with that doesn’t have some kind of correlation to the real world of monster hunting. Except maybe aliens, but he’s not going to rule out the possibility, because let’s face it, it’s a big universe and at the end of the day some parasitic bug that takes up residence in your inner ear would be just the icing on the cake as far as crap that can happen to the unsuspecting citizen goes.

“Animal deaths” is one of those nice, ambiguous signs that shit is going down that doesn’t really rule out anything at first glance. It can be anything from a baby werewolf to random psycho kids pulling the wings off butterflies, so that makes for a long slog trying to figure out what’s really going on.

-How do you know it’s not just… normal, Sam asks when they’re sitting in a coffee shop sifting through local news.   
-Yeah, that’s kind of the problem, Dean tells him and flips through the pages of the paper open on the table trying to find something, anything to go on. “There’s actually something like a normal ratio for these kinds of things.”

Sam looks up at him, expression interested and engaged.

-Look at it this way: say there’s a stretch of road where one cat gets run over ever month. If, all of a sudden there are fifty cats getting hit on that same stretch … you’ve got something going on.   
-Makes sense, Sam agrees.   
-Sadly, it does.   
-So, then the question becomes why, Sam says absentmindedly, eyes already back on the screen of the laptop in front of him.   
-And what, Dean adds, kind of redundantly.

Horror movies get some things right. They get most things wrong, but half the point, Dean figures, is that the viewer can sit on their comfortable couch and yell at the hero for being stupid when they traipse around in graveyards after midnight with nothing but a flashlight and a smile, trying to figure out what’s making the strange growling noise that has been bothering them. It would make for a pretty shitty movie if they took precautions and carried an assault rifle. Still, it’s not like you can’t accidentally be just as stupid as vapid blond number two or big jock number five. It’s difficult sometimes, seeing what you’re in the middle of until you’re staring the monster in the face.

A lot of the time, Dean figures, hunters come in somewhere in the third act anyway. Shit has already gone down and all of a sudden there’s a new gun in town and if they’re lucky then they can take out the threat before it causes more problems.

He and Sam aren’t likely looking heroes. They’re a little too rough around the edges and Sam’s not really old enough. Jesus, Dean thinks it’s just about as difficult to look away from Sam sitting casually sprawled out in the corner booth of the coffee place as it is to turn away from him when he’s standing an inch away from you. He’s got a cheap notebook out on the table making a list of all the animal deaths he can find information on and he’s got the biggest cup of coffee the place serves on hand at his elbow.

They’re still in the research phase of this job and Dean already on edge. That’s probably not good. He doesn’t really like this side of himself, the part that is very much a hunter, conditioned to need this, the jolt of adrenaline it brings, the promise of a kill. He knows there was a time when it all terrified him, but John trained that out of him, forced him to channel the fear into action and the action into a kind of muted and directed bloodlust that starts thrumming in his veins as soon as a hunt begins to coalesce.

There are too many animal deaths in this town and it’s surroundings. Cattle, horses, house pets, but also foxes, rabbits, deer, wild animals. From what Dean can tell the MO is the same on most of the pets and livestock. The creature kills by breaking necks and opening throats, crushing wounds, bites, that kind of thing. It’s a finicky eater, though. If you read between the lines it seems to have a taste for entrails. It doesn’t say hearts, specifically, though, so probably not werewolf.

When Dean tells Sam his conclusions, Sam’s brow furrows.

-Why does that matter? The hearts, I mean, Sam asks.   
-I have no idea. Weres go for hearts in my experience.   
-Just hearts?   
-Far as I know, yeah.

What Dean doesn’t tell Sam is that he’s kind of glad it isn’t a werewolf. One of the first real hunts Dean ever went on with his father was a werewolf hunt. He still remembers how incredibly proud John was after that. They had spent almost two weeks tracking it before they finally caught up with it and Dean had been the one to deliver the killing blow, silver to the heart.

Dean hated it.

Not because it didn’t need doing, that werewolf had more than one kill under its belt. It was the nature of the beast that really bothered Dean. Dad always talked about werewolves as a particular kind of evil that nestled in the bosom of the human community, killing indiscriminately and being all the worse for being able to go undetected most of the time. Dean didn’t see it that way. The werewolf they had been chasing hadn’t really known what it was. It was just some guy who got unlucky and was bit when he was out in the woods one night.

Like with everything else, once weres get older, they get wiser and more dangerous. They start losing their humanity when they realize they’ve lost their humanity, Dean figures. Once the rules change and no longer apply to them they just go on doing what werewolves do. Dean’s pretty sure there are old ones out there that don’t give a shit about humanity and manage to coexist just fine most of the time, but the new ones who don’t have a fucking clue what happens… well, they really do remind Dean of monster movies. That scene where the guy wakes up naked in the woods with a funny taste in his mouth and no idea what the hell happened to him? It’s not really all that far fetched.

Dean doesn’t think it’s supposed to go down like that when a werewolf gets his teeth in you. He thinks they’re supposed to be given some kind of guidance into their new life. He’s toyed with the idea that the ones hunters put down are the ones that are bit accidentally, or get left behind on purpose for whatever reason. Not that he can prove that one way or the other.

Anyway, the reason Dean hates hunting werewolves is almost exactly the inversion of why dad loves it so much. Dad sees them as the worst possible evil, the worst possible beast, the one that hides in plain sight. Dean hates because they’re just not that cognizant most of the time. Twenty seven or so days a month they’re just people. More often than not they have only a rudimentary idea that there’s something wrong with them and they didn’t actually intend for any of that to happen to them. They’re about as guilty of evil as the Ebola virus. The kills are always violent and messy and bloody, the victims are usually someone the were has some kind of connection too, some emotion invested in, whether it’s hate or lust or love, and once they start killing they can’t actually stop. But when the moons not out, they’re just people.

That first kill had been ugly. Dad took a shot at the wolf and hit it in the shoulder and Dean had finished it off with a silver arrow to the heart. Another thing horror movies get kind of wrong is what happens after. If the kill is clean then the wolf does turn back, takes it’s human shape. If there’s silver already in the blood, they get stuck in between, a mess of twisted bones, fur, teeth, claws and just looking at them it seem painful. It was really gruesome. The werewolf had been a young guy, about twenty-five or so, and he got stuck halfway in that parody of a shape when he died. Dad had crowed about it, clapped Dean on the back and went to built a pyre.

Dean had gotten the job of going to the guy’s apartment, packing up his essentials and taking his car for a drive. When Dean had been in that shitty little studio apartment, putting socks and boxers in a bag, he had noticed that the guy’s answering machine was blinking and without really thinking about it he had listened to the messages, just trying to figure out if they needed to worry about it, him and dad.

From what Dean could tell the guy was supposed to show up at his aunt and uncle’s for Thanksgiving, which Dean hadn’t really even been tracking was about to come around. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t know there had to be someone who cared for the guy, but hearing his aunt teasingly remind him to bring pecans was kind of a kick in the gut. Not because the werewolf didn’t need to be put down for the good of all, but because somewhere out there was a family that would have to go through never knowing what happened to the guy who packed his bag, got in his car to go visit his family and then just never showed up.

Even the most obvious-seeming clear cut kind of hunt has a tally of losses and a cost in misery somewhere, and Dean had a moment of epiphany about that in that guy’s apartment, listening to his messages and it wasn’t as black and white as it all had seemed when all dad’s talk about silver arrows had made it sound so … exciting.

Dad had rewarded Dean afterwards by giving Dean his old leather jacket and a shot of whiskey. Dean could never bring himself to wearing the jacket which he had kind of coveted before all that went down. He keeps it carefully boxed up in the closet at Bobby’s.

Dean knows that whatever needs to be done, he’ll do it. It’s not even that. He knows there is no stopping once a were starts killing. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the cost inherent in that, the lives destroyed by it. And, like with a virus, he can hate what it does, but he could just never bring himself to hate the person infected.

-They’re talking about intestines, Sam says distractedly.

Dean looks over at him. Sam looks like he’s about due a refill on his coffee.

-Yeah? Dean asks.   
-So, that doesn’t really tell us anything, does it? I mean, there’s a lot of intestine. Looking at the crime scene photos, they don’t mean the actual entrails. So what do they mean? Liver? Spleen? That has to have some kind of significance, right?

Dean glances at the rather more colorful than usual photos on the screen as Sam pushes it around to face towards him. The picture is a bit too Pollack for Dean’s taste. It’s probably a cow and it’s been gutted and spread out over what looks like a pretty decent area. Sam has managed to put his finger right on the biggest clue they have.

-I think Kappas take a liver, but that doesn’t seem likely here, Dean muses.   
-Why not?   
-They’re a water thing. Lakes, ponds. This is all inland and dry.   
-Okay. Anything else?   
-Nothing that springs to mind. Think claws and teeth, though.   
-Yeah, Sam says, drawing it out with a sarcastic tinge.

Dean gets up to go buy them both some more coffee, figures they need it. He had been thinking about pie, but all they have is sour cherry and Dean doesn’t think all that red is going to go down too well right now. When Dean sets down the cup for Sam, the kid looks up at him and makes a face that’s equal parts disgusted and fascinated.

-What?  
-Do you know what you get when you do a search for “monster that eats internal organs”?  
-Not really.   
-News stories about a guy in Indiana who killed his girlfriend and ate her… and something called a Penanggalan.   
-Huh. Wait, go back, the guy in Indiana, what did he eat?

Sam clicks around a little.

-Her heart, part of her brain and a lung, Sam reads.   
-Good lord. I don’t know which is more sick, the idea that he’s a ghoul or the idea that it’s just some guy. But let’s not get off track. Penan-the-what-now, could that be something?   
-Not off of this article. But, then, I don’t exactly trust the source here.   
-So we’re still thinking beast. A picky eater with teeth and claws and some strength behind it.   
-It’s getting hungrier, too, so whatever it’s eating it’s not hitting the spot. The kills are getting more and more frequent.   
-You think it’s working itself up to something a little more two-legged?   
-Would it surprise you?

Dean just shakes his head. Not really. It seems to go that way a lot.

-Why isn’t there a database? Sam asks with some irritation.   
-You mean for hunters?   
-Yes.   
-Well, generally they’re not the most computer savvy guys.   
-So there’s no network of shared information? Sam asks and now he sounds almost affronted.   
-Not that I know of, no.   
-Luddites. It seems extremely fucking stupid to have to keep doing the same grunt work every time something like this happens. Waste of time, Sam grouses and goes right back to his typing.

He’s right, too. Dad’s journal aside, Dean’s never seen any kind of comprehensive information library that you could access and he daydreams a little about that while he leafs through another week-old newspaper. After another hour or so, Dean’s about had it. He goes to the bathroom and when he’s washing his hands he realizes they’re going to have to go at this from a completely different angle. He had been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, because of Sam, but here they are. And they’re in it now. Damn.

-Okay, Dean says when he sits back down at their table. “This is where we go from theoretical to hands on.”

Sam is looking grim by now, frown etched deep on his too-young-for-it face.

-Alright, he says.   
-Tag every kill on a map. Get a grid. And then we go hunting, Dean tells him.

Sam shakes his head, just a slight movement. It’s not that he won’t do it, Dean can tell, it’s more that he really doesn’t like it.

-You don’t want to come that’s up to you, kid, Dean says.   
-Oh, fuck you. You’re not going alone.

Dean grins at him.

-We load for bear, Dean tells him. “It’s not the most prudent way to get the job done, but I have this creeping feeling that we’re on the clock here.”

Sam just looks at him for what seems like a really long, suspended moment. Then he nods slowly.

-I think you might be right. Get me another coffee and I’ll get right on it.

The grid actually winds up looking like a wide comma around the northern outskirts of the town. Most of the animals are found in the daytime, which is when people are up and about, so it’s probably a dusk ‘til dawn hunter. That means they will be out there at night, hoping to get lucky. Or, unlucky, as the case might be. Most of the outlying farms have been hit, so Sam has drawn a tight circle around two or three further fields that seem to be most likely. The farmers have all taken to emptying their fields if they have livestock and Dean can’t blame them. He’s hoping they’re not going to bump into farmer Brown with a shotgun in a hunting tower somewhere. That could get awkward.

The first night there’s nothing. The second night they hear something that might be something, but it’s gone before they get a bead on it. The third night is when things get interesting.

Sometimes the horror movies get it right. When you’re out hunting something it might be hunting you right back. That’s all Dean can think as they suddenly hear the crack of a branch snapping behind them and a low growl. It moves in the shadows, a denser patch of blackness, liquid and menacing. Sam has gone completely still by his side and Dean’s already aiming the shotgun when the thing bursts into action, coming for them. Dean doesn’t really have time to think, he’s already firing, shotgun blast ridiculously loud in the quiet night. There’s a yelp and a snarl and a vicious harrowing sound that puts Dean in mind of metal on metal but the creature is still moving towards them. Sam has his gun up now and he’s firing, three rounds in quick succession. There’s more snarling, but the thing is still closing in on them. That’s a no on iron and silver. Fuck.

There’s not enough light to see it clearly, but it’s big, whatever it is.

Dean goes right and Sam goes left before they’re forced to back all the way into the underbrush and that means they have to be really careful now about where they put their bullets. It’s not ideal. None of this is, really, but they’re out of options and goddamn this is stupid, but Dean unsheathes his machete anyway. Sam deliberately makes more noise than he does, so the things head swings around in the kid’s direction, focusing there and that means Dean has the slimmest little advantage you can possibly imagine, but now the thing is hurt and pissed and Dean’s out of time. He takes a run at it, hail-Mary and please-god, and brings the machete down on the thing’s neck.

That makes it angry.

It’s head comes up to Dean’s chest. It smells of wild woods and old meat and it has dense dark bristly fur. It’s on all fours, but if it gets up on its hind legs Dean figures loading for bear was not a bad idea. This is like riling up a grizzly. And he’s out of time, he’s out of options, so he swings again and this time he hits the neck at an angle that makes blood spray over him like it comes out of a goddamned garden hose. That makes it stagger and go down on its knees. At this point all Dean can do is keep hacking away. When all else fails, taking off the head usually helps. That and fire will pretty much kill anything.

When it’s finally still the head is laying messily severed and Dean’s made a butchery of the neck. His arms are tired and he’s covered in blood and he knows he’s grinning, he can feel the stretch of it all over his face.

Sam is suddenly there, patting him down, asking if he’s okay and Dean reassures him that it’s not his blood, which makes Sam look down at his own hands, blood black in the scant light.

The thing that stays with Dean about the whole mess, after they’ve salted and burned the critter down to a crisp, is that neither him nor Sam made any noise during the kill. He didn’t need to scream directions for Sam or yell at him to get out of the way, or hold his fire or anything. And Sam hadn’t cried out for him either. They’d moved like they knew where the other would be, smooth and unstoppable and brutally dangerous. Only after, when the bloodlust had simmered down, had their words come back in reassurances and confirmations. That – that really is rare. And a thing of beauty.


	31. Rush

Hunting… well, no, the _idea_ of hunting as some kind of noble cause, some righteous path, calls up all kinds of concepts and notions. It’s all bugles and bows and horses and paintings with too much green in them. Or legends of heroic feats and just causes and epic quests. Dean’s mostly smart enough to know that’s a part of it, it’s the clear-cut justification for what they do, especially for men like his father.

But, all those things, all those ideas? They have darker double. Everything that calls up is about blood and violence and the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of taking on something bigger than you, pitting your skills against an equal, or better, adversary and hoping you’ll come out if it with no lethal wounds.

He doesn’t like looking at that too closely, doesn’t want to put words to it, but there are words like adrenaline junky and bloodlust and killer. He’s self-aware enough recognize all that and to try and put a lid on it. Most of the time. Not when he’s in the middle of a hunt, because that would be fucking stupid, he needs those things then. He needs the thrill and the rush in his blood, the pounding of his pulse and the sheer buzz of holding a weapon with intent. He needs it so he can be fast enough, reckless enough and sharp enough to get it done.

Guys jump out of perfectly good airplanes to get that rush. They throw themselves off cliffs and get into bar fights and drive too fast, drink too much, find themselves a girl that cuts like a razor, anything for that rush.

Dean hunts.

So, with all that in mind, or buried just out of reach in his conscious thoughts, anyway, it’s not so strange that he’s high as a fucking kite off the kill and the lack of sleep and the satisfaction of a job well done. Or, again, sloppily done, hastily done, but at least really goddamned done. He’s got the ache in his machete hand to prove it and the smell of charred flesh and burnt hair in his clothes along with the blood. Dean’s ready for it, the shakes, the too sharp focus, the tenseness in his muscles that won’t ease up just yet. And he’s ready to play it all off, to take it to a bar, or a diner.

He’s spectacularly unprepared for the look Sam gives him when they get closer to where he’s parked the car and there’s a few random streetlights casting a gloomy kind of orange glow over the road. Dean’s covered in blood. No, really, he’s covered, his whole torso a dark stain, tacky and disgusting. It’s seeping into his jeans and his socks and boots and it’s in his goddamned hair, what the hell.

Normally Sam gives him those calculating, evaluating glances and the appraisal in them is almost mathematical.

This time, there’s something entirely different there, something that rings through Dean like the unyielding bell metal chime of a call to sermon.

Sam is looking at him like he wants to fuck him into the ground. Right here, right now.

It’s startling.

Dean remembers the look on Sam’s face after his very first hunt, that adrenaline bright spark, the pleasure there. He remembers thinking it was a good look on the kid. It was a stunning look, actually.

This is different.

This is what all that adrenaline brightness becomes when it’s simmered and reduced itself into a slow ember burn, hotter and more dangerous.

Sam, who is usually so tightly controlled, icily dismissive and protective of his own personal space. Sam, who has been hurt, more times and in more ways than Dean’s been told about. Dean’s as sure of that as he is of anything about Sam. It took a long while for Sam to stop flinching, but he’s still not easy about having Dean close. Sam, who has taken pains to make sure Dean knows he’s not on offer, he’s not for sale, or for rent, or for hire. Sam, who won’t ask for anything, or can’t maybe.

It’s not like they don’t both know there’s something between them that doesn’t slot easily into the act they pull as brothers, or the notion that they’re friends, or colleagues. There’s been something there since they met, bad circumstance notwithstanding. Dean’s been good about it, because he’s just not the kind of guy that likes making things more complicated than they have to be. Things have a tendency to get complicated all by themselves and he’s not going to make that worse by going where he’s not been invited. And even if he had been, with Sam he’d have to think twice. Or three times.

Not if Sam keeps looking at him like that, though. He’s going to forget thinking at all if Sam keeps doing that.

Dean’s at the trunk of the car, he had some kind of notion that he should at least change his shirt before getting behind the wheel. It’s not likely that they’d get pulled over at this time of night, but if they do, in this town with its recent history of animal deaths, Dean doesn’t like his odds if he looks like he just took a literal bloodbath. Now he’s stuck there with his hand on the trunk and his feet braced. Sam has stopped just out of reach and he’s sweaty and dirty and he’s got tired circles under his eyes that make his gaze seem even darker, almost sinister. He’s frozen too, like a hunting dog with a scent. It seems he’s as trapped and staggered by all this as Dean is.

Sam isn’t used to it, he hasn’t had this before. Dean tries to remind himself that it takes a while to learn to handle it, the rush and post-hunt buzz. It takes a while to learn to balance yourself after that, to let it calm down, fade out enough that you can translate it into other things.

The energy between them is crackling now, brittle and electric. This feels more perilous than what they just did. This feels like the second you hear a branch snap behind you and nothing at all like that at the same time.

Dean knows what he should be doing. He should be playing this off. He can diffuse this, he’s done it before. It’s not the first time he’s come off a hunt half hard and ready to go with a partner that he can’t really go there with. The problem here is he’s not sure what he wants. Or, he’s not sure he should want the things he wants.

-Dean, Sam says.

It’s just his name, but there is a wealth of things there. Too much, even.

Bad idea. Bad idea and not the right time, circumstance all fucked to hell and Dean’s covered in blood, jittery. He’s not sure that he does want this, but he’s more than sure enough that this is a bad idea.

-Bad idea, Sam, he says and he’s acknowledged it now, he’s said it outright, so they should be okay to just go on from here.

But Sam is moving toward him, so maybe that didn’t work so well. Sam comes to him hand already reaching. He puts his palm flat against Dean’s heart. Jesus, this kid. Dean’s heart is pounding again under the slight pressure of Sam’s fingers and the sticky fabric is clinging to Dean like a blunt reminder of what he just did. Not that he needs it. Sam keeps their gazes locked. He’s as unapologetic with this as he is with everything, even his cool dismissals.

-It’s not a good idea, Sam, he tries again, but he’s not moving away from the touch, that would feel too much like a rejection and Dean can’t do that, for more than one reason.   
-Yeah, terrible idea. Fucking stupid. Don’t know why anyone would be that dumb, Sam agrees and then he leans in and puts his mouth on the thrumming thump of Dean’s carotid.

There’s no confusion in that. None at all. Sam’s lips are dry, but his confidence is solid. Everything else is ambiguous. Sam’s hand is keeping him in place and not letting him in closer. Sam’s mouth is not sweet, but open and hungry. He’s leaning into Dean, putting weight behind it and Dean’s just standing there, he can’t help it, he can’t stop this, doesn’t even really want to, but he’s not reaching for Sam. Instead his hands are making fists. He’s holding back with everything he’s got.

This thing between them has been nebulous from the beginning. It’s been flowing and reconfiguring and finding ways to express itself the whole time and Dean knows that, he does. He knows that the way he likes Sam is different from the way he reacts with other people, the way he likes other people. He’s been looking at Sam, studying Sam, watching Sam just as carefully as Sam has been evaluating him.

Sam isn’t taking any prisoners right now. He’s not coming at Dean hard and aggressive, but he’s sure, he’s so goddamned _sure_ when he takes one of Dean’s hands in his own and presses it between his own legs. The hot weight of Sam in his hand makes Dean breathe out something that sounds like a hiss. It’s instinct after that, molding his fingers over Sam through the barrier of cloth. Sam widens his stance in response, a hot gust of breath streaming out over Dean’s neck.

What Dean would like to do is grab hold of Sam and push him up against the car, get in between his legs and kiss the daylights out of him, maybe get on his knees and see if the kid really meant it when he said he likes a mouth on him. He can’t do that, though. Dean’s gut tells him restraining Sam would stop all this cold. Instead he tries to fit them together a little better leaning back himself, letting the black solidity of the car shore them up. It’s cramped and a little uncomfortable and Sam keeps his face buried at Dean’s neck, sucking licking kisses there which revs Dean’s engine like you wouldn’t believe.

It’s not elegant, but it’s not the fumbled rush of desperation, either. The hand Sam has on his chest makes a strong fist in the blood drenched fabric, demanding that Dean keep close and his mouth is doing some really incendiary things to the sensitive skin on Dean’s neck and Dean figures this is one of those things that are going to happen, letting his apprehension go and enjoying the feel of Sam’s body up against his own.

Every hunt carries with it the threat of imminent death. Every time he’s ever gone up against something that could be the end of him he’s always let the triumph of victory be a reward all on its own because there’s not a lot else he can hope for. In some ways that’s the best thrill, the best rush. But the darker side of it, the thing that he’s careful about, it isn’t about logic or reason. It’s about this.

Sam’s hips grind forward and Dean knows that’s got to be uncomfortable, so he changes his footing and creates just enough space between them to slink a hand inside Sam’s jeans. Hot skin under his fingers and the sound Sam makes against his neck makes a prickle of sweat break out all over Dean, a good searing rush. He takes his time, touching, his wrist already aching from the machete, but that doesn’t matter, not when Sam starts moving against him like he’s dying for it. Dean kind of wants to get a look at Sam’s eyes, but that’s not going to happen the way Sam keeps his head down.

Dean knows it’s not shame. Sam might have said he can’t ask for anything, but this is beyond all that, beyond the tally, that goddamned list Sam keeps in his head with all the checks and balances.

Sam’s other hand comes up and grabs hold of Dean’s shoulder and Dean stops thinking about anything other than making Sam feel good. Sam holds on to him, fingers tightening and breath going heavy, the rhythm of his hips slow and hard. Dean puts his free palm flat at the small of Sam’s back, enjoying the feeling of Sam moving between his hands, liking the way it jars him back against the car, Sam fluid before him and the car unyielding at his back.

Sam’s not exactly quiet. There are little broken off noises and bit off beginnings of words that Dean can sense more than hear. It’s absolutely unreasonable that this feels more like sex than the last time Dean was naked in someone’s bed. This is hotter and more immediate than the last girl he slept with, the last time he was inside someone.

It doesn’t really last all that long and Dean would have been surprised if it had. He’s not so much jacking Sam off as letting Sam fuck his fist at this point and the noises Sam can’t quite contain climb a little higher, get lighter and airier, a reminder of his youth in some ways and at the same time all this just shows that Sam isn’t the least bit innocent, going for what he needs like it’s his right.

Dean can feel when Sam comes, the way it builds up through his body, the rhythm lost to a staccato, tensing muscles. It feels like it rolls up through Sam from the soles of his feet all the way up to the mouth that closes in a stinging bite near Dean’s clavicle. All but the slightest of gasps gets muffled against Dean’s skin and he thinks he would have liked to hear that released into the dark around them, but this is not the time for that. Or the place. Dean keeps his hands on him, though, doesn’t let go, gentles his grip, takes all Sam’s weight when he slumps forward.

Sam breathes heavy against him for a moment and he’s shuddering slightly. Dean slowly pulls his hand out of Sam’s jeans, figures with the mess he’s already a lost cause and wipes off on his own. When he shifts a little Sam tenses minutely and the hand on Dean’s shoulder migrates up to Dean’s neck. Dean’s perfectly alright with this being all there is to it right now. He’s turned on as hell, this is hitting buttons he’s never even acknowledged, but he’s not going to demand anything.

Sam’s head slowly lifts back up and the gaze he turns on Dean is surprisingly alert, blazing right through him. There’s a hint of slack satisfaction around Sam’s mouth, a lack of tension in his frame that Dean’s really enjoying, but there’s too much sharp awareness in his eyes. Dean lets Sam read whatever there is to see on his face and Sam’s responding slight frown is decisive. Sam puts his head next to Dean’s, presses his cheek to Dean’s and mutters something too low for Dean to hear before his hands both go to Dean’s fly. He makes a move to stop Sam, wants to tell him it will keep, but Sam makes a disgruntled noise.

-Not going to let you, Sam mumbles. “Won’t leave you hanging.”

Dean figures that’s fair enough and leans back so he’s almost sitting on the trunk now. Sam won’t let any distance open up between them, keeps pressed in close. He makes short work of Dean’s jeans and uses both hands on Dean, molding his fingers around him and everything gets slick and wet and hot and there’s the desperate edge that Dean managed to hold back before, focusing on Sam. He was so intent on Sam that he didn’t even realize how close he’s gotten himself, just from feeling Sam release against him.

Afterwards they lean back against the car next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, getting their breath back. The good rush of endorphins is a particular kind of high that makes Dean feel magnanimous towards the universe for once.

-You should clean up, Sam says, voice lazy and amused, head still tipped back to watch the night sky. “You look like a crime scene.”

Dean glances at him, this inscrutable kid that he can’t help wanting like he wants well maintained weapons and new tires for his car. Sam is something beautiful and unexpected and essential.

Dean doesn’t think about it as he finds a clean shirt to wear and exchanges his blood-soaked one. He doesn’t really think about it on the drive back to the motel, either. It’s only when he’s in the shower, watching the bruising darken around the neat indentation marks of Sam’s teeth on his chest that it hits him. He’s done a lot of strange things in his life, he’s had encounters that were more aggressive than what happened between him and Sam, and he’s had more ill-advised hookups too. He can’t remember ever having done anything like this, though, anything that felt like that, without kissing.

Sam had stepped up to him and put hands on him and instigated something that Dean thinks he’s going to be hungry for all the time now, but he didn’t kiss. Not even once. What the hell is Dean supposed to make of that? 


	32. Underneath

Dean is confused.

It’s official. He’s confused as all hell.

Okay, so granted, Dean’s not a relationship kind of guy. He’s hardly ever hung around long enough to have more than a three week fling with the local color. It’s not something he thinks all that much about, really, because it’s just not he way he lives his life. He’s always on the move and he’s played “Like a Rolling Stone” on the car stereo enough times to enough girls that the point has gotten across and he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. Good times. That’s the best he can offer.

The few times he’s managed to get invested were when he was younger and still thought that they’d stick around some place for more than two months, him and dad, but he’s figured out since then that puppy love is just that. He thought it was more than it was, because he wanted it to be more than it was. Or he wanted to return to the same smile for more than a week. Something like that. Dad disabused him of that notion, telling Dean that he shouldn’t bother getting attached. Not while they were still hunting mom’s killer.

Dean had honestly kind of thought that he had free rein for a while there. He thought that it was all the same, getting attached was not all right, so he should just get his kicks where he could. And he did. It wasn’t until he was almost eighteen that he questioned the thinking behind that. Dad had more or less put a moratorium on any kind of relationship for Dean until they had ‘settled down’ when ‘it was all over’, which meant … never. At least as far as Dean could see. And he was stuck with this strange half-life where he wasn’t allowed to form any kind of deeper connection to anyone, at least not in a romantic sense, because his father had lost his wife, the deepest romantic connection John had ever had. Dean always figured dad was the master of doublespeak.

What John wanted was for Dean to be available and unattached so there wouldn’t be any inconvenient obstacles when he needed Dean for a hunt. And John had been very clear about Dean having a steady girlfriend, or a wife and kids of his own. All that was for later, because it wasn’t safe. Never mind that Dean has never had more than a passing acquaintance with “safe” even under the best of circumstance.

He’d been okay with that. Annoyed at his father for blithely dictating his life, but then, what else was new? Anyway… the thing about all that is, it’s a fucked up way to live and Dean knows it. He knows that it’s not at all as perfect and freeing as young guys think. It’s not like there’s anything he can do about the rootlessness and the fact that he’s half in the shadows most of the time and letting anyone in closer means they’ll see things they’ll never get over. He had one girl he kind of dated back in high school freak the fuck out when she found out he was carrying a weapon. And she hadn’t even seen why he was carrying. Just the fact that there was violence kind of adjacent had been enough to send her running for the hills.

Dean is not the kind of guy to sit around and think about relationship issues. He gets hives at the mere thought of it, actually. All that means that Dean’s feeling kind of stupid right now. He can do friendships. He can do hookups. He has no fucking idea how to deal with the thing that’s going on with him and Sam, because he’s pretty sure that they should be doing things that they aren’t doing. Like talking.

Oh, he hates the idea of that, don’t get him wrong. He hates that he might actually have to sit down and talk to the kid about what the hell is going on with them. Honestly, he’d rather take on a pooka with nothing but a sharp stick and a smile.

It’s been a week now since that thing at the roadside after that hunt. He doesn’t know how he thought it would go, but he’s pretty sure this is not the way it should be. Not that he has any idea of what things should be. Or even if there is such a thing as how things should be.

They had gotten back to the motel, showered and eaten and crashed hard. Three nights of vigil and hardly any sleep during the daytime and working blind had been stressful and hectic and boring and exhilarating and exhausting. They hadn’t done more than grumbled at each other before they fell asleep and Dean thinks that there must have been some kind of window of opportunity there, somewhere, for him to do something… like get a kiss. Even a peck goodnight would have done it, and then he would have known that it wasn’t just the adrenaline. Now he’s not sure, because things have been normal since. Or, you know, normal for them, which means Sam is the same as always, which means he slips into unreadable and as aloof as a feral cat and Dean’s caught thinking there’s something he should be doing, something he’s forgotten, about twenty times a day.

Sam is not someone Dean needs to appease and he’s sure as hell not someone Dean can put on an act for, so changing his behavior as if Sam was some kind of hookup wouldn’t work. Dean’s already figured out that trying to pretend that they could do any kind of friends-with-benefits thing is ridiculous. Whatever else they are ‘casual’ is not it. It never could be. He looks at the kid and he sees far too much there that he likes. He’s hesitant to mess with that.

Conversely… he would really like to get his hands on Sam again. On a bed this time. Slower.

It maybe could have gone that way too, if the next hunt they took on hadn’t had them back to posing as brothers. And maybe that could still have been fine if they hadn’t been living at a bed and breakfast that was run by the family having problems with a ghost in one of the cabins that were a part of the B’n’B. So here they are, now, in one of the best rooms with one of the best beds Dean’s slept in for a long time and, despite all the frippery. It’s a sweet setup, if not for the fact that the family is around _all the time_.

He and Sam must put off some kind of orphaned motherless starved vibe, because the matriarch of the family, a surprisingly brisk and businesslike middle-aged woman named Nellie, keeps popping into their room and doting on them, feeding them endless sandwiches and snacks and Dean would resent it if she wasn’t so awesome. She is, though. She’s tough as saddle leather and no-nonsense. When it’s not her, it’s her husband, Robert. When it’s not call-me-Rob, it’s the daughter, Christina, who’s got a little crush going. Dean’s not sure if it’s on him, or on Sam, or on both of them. Sam hides smiles behind his books that Dean thinks are downright impish.

The cabins are a pretty recent addition, an expansion of the business. Nothing bad has happened in any of them, so that’s a dead end. It doesn’t take Dean long to figure out that the ghost must be attached to some object somewhere and since Nellie has explained that she and her husband have decorated with stuff bought at antique shops and vintage stores and garage sales there are a lot of knickknacks to go through. Sam makes an interested noise when Dean explains about the whole ghost-attached-to-random-object theory. It does make things easier in some ways, but then of course, it becomes a scavenger hunt. The knickknack in question doesn’t necessarily need to be at the cabin where the ghost has been most active.

Compared to the thing in the woods this is white bread, but it’s more frustrating. Dean walks the cabin with his EMF and not a beep out of it. Then he walks the other cabins. Still nothing. Then he goes over the main building, and, yeah, you guessed it, nothing. Meanwhile Sam is talking with Nellie about what she bought around the time the ghost started appearing. At least she keeps good records, has all her receipts in order.

Three days of that and Dean’s starting to feel the need to punch something.

Him and Sam are sharing a room which means Dean also gets a sharp reminder that Sam’s nightmares haven’t exactly gotten any better. He says Sam’s name, tells him where they are, tells him that he’s safe and waits while Sam breathes through the rough awakening and then lies there, not talking and not falling back asleep until the sun sends a dirty grey tendril of light through the flowery curtain. It’s not like they haven’t done this before, but Dean kind of really wants to back his reassurances with something more physical now. Not that he hasn’t had that impulse before, but it’s getting more insistent. Louder. It’s like Dean’s body has ideas about closeness and breath and skin that Dean’s mind kind of understands aren’t really on the table. It’s confusing as all hell.

Sam is sitting on his bed, feet firmly planted on the rug, rubbing his hands over his face like he wants to scrub the night away. His hair is a mess, his eyes are hidden and he’s in shorts and a t-shirt. And socks. He’s got his socks on for some reason. Dean thinks the thing that rises up in him, runs warm through his chest, isn’t anything as crude as want. It’s a muted glow kind of affection that he mostly associates with furry creatures.

That’s … oh, that’s so stupid. It’s much, much worse than random liking or momentary lust.

-You okay? Dean asks.

Sam looks up at him with tired, shaded eyes.

-We need to talk to Christina.

Dean doesn’t know what to make of that. The girl has been dogging them, but it’s not like she’s been setting off any alarms with Dean. Mousy hair, not exactly pretty but with a pleasant face, practical clothes, kind of beige. She’s been hanging around, but not really interacting with either of them. She’s the one that saw the ghost the first two times before it started moving things around, so they did an initial interview when they first got here, but that was with the whole family and Nellie did most of the actual talking.

-Okay, Dean agrees. “You think we missed something?”  
-She’s the one who was with Nellie on the last two runs they made for decorations and stuff. And she’s the one who saw the ghost first. Whatever is going on now I think it’s connected to her more than the anything else.  
-You figure this out or did you dream about it? Dean asks struck by a sudden inspiration.

Sam gives him a long look. He shrugs noncommittally. Bit of both, then, probably. Sam gets up and goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Dean gets dressed thinking about what there could be about Christina that he missed the first time around.

They track her down after breakfast, doing housekeeping in one of the cabins. On Sam’s insistence Dean has the EMF with him, but not switched on. She looks up startled when Dean knocks on the doorframe to the open cabin door. She’s bent over the double bed, trying to tug a clean sheet smooth from the far corner. Sam steps in with a smile and a “let me help you with that”. Dean steps in after him and just watches as they make the bed together, Sam pulling the sheet neat and then tucking it in with the kind of military precision that Dean himself was taught.

-Was there something you needed? Christina asks when Sam starts replacing pillow cases right alongside her.  
-You’re the one who saw the … you’re the one who noticed first, aren’t you? Sam says.

Christina doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Dean’s just watching her and there’s something about her body language that reads as a little off to him. She’s bending down stiffly, like there’s something wrong with her back. She’s a young girl, about his age and she’s moving like she’s been hurt. He wonders if there’s something here that he hasn’t seen, something more sinister than what he thought, going on with this family. They really don’t seem the type, but then Dean’s missed things like that before and Sam always picks up on it like he’s got a sixth sense for when kids are being messed with. Dean really hopes it isn’t Nellie. He likes that old broad.

Christina is having trouble making eye contact. She’s seemed a little shy and reserved since they first said hello, but being shy is not crime. Nothing wrong with that. She’s been perfectly civil to them, helpful. She’s the kind of girl that gives good service, but doesn’t really leave much of an impression beyond that. Right now she’s nervous. That’s understandable. Dean tries to relax his stance so it doesn’t look so much like he’s on guard. He realizes that Sam’s been using a particular tone of voice that’s soft and kind of sweet and nothing like what Dean’s used to hearing from him.

-Yes, she says and stops fidgeting with the bed linen and stands there looking down at the floor.  
-Did you buy something for yourself when you went with your mom? Sam asks, still in that solicitous voice.

Christina blushes rose red, heating up from her neck to her cheeks. It’s not a pretty flush, but a hectic, startling deep red. She nods still looking down. Sam’s gaze flicks over to Dean and he gives the tiniest of nods. Dean turns the EMF on and it goes nuts even from where he’s standing.

-What did you buy, Christina? Sam asks.

That only makes the girl blush worse. She’s looking violently uncomfortable and like she wants to sink right through the floor and hide under the floorboards. She mumbles something that Dean can’t make out. Sam’s standing closer to her, but he can’t seem to make sense of it either.

-What was that? Dean asks, turning the EMF off again to kill the noise.  
-…clothing, she says still refusing to look at either of them.  
-Okay, Sam says. “Like vintage, right? That’s cool. You’re going to have to take it off, though, because we’re pretty sure that that’s what’s causing the problems.”

That really doesn’t help. Christina looks absolutely mortified and she’s starting to look a little scared too.

-Here? she whispers in a strange, strangled tone.  
-If that’s alright, Sam says.  
-I can’t! she says like Sam just suggested she should set fire to her own hair or something.  
-Okay, that’s okay, Sam says, trying to calm her down. “How about you go back to your room and change and then bring it to us? We’ll be out back by the garden.”

Christina looks from Sam to Dean then, a quick flicking bunny rabbit glance and then flees the room. Sam looks at Dean and shrugs. Dean looks after Christina who just ran off without even closing the door behind her. They leave the cabin as is and amble over to the car, getting the salt and accelerant and then head into the garden that has a little barbecue area with a nice grill that they can use. Clothes burn easily and this shouldn’t be much of a problem.

It isn’t until the girl shows back up with a paper bag in one hand and the same wine dark blush going that Dean gets a clue and he tries so hard not to crack up when Christina flees right back to her room.

Underneath those frumpy, practical clothes and the unassuming demeanor Christina had been wearing a fine, deep blue silk bone corset with frills and lace and satin bows that looks like it belongs in Moulin Rouge. It’s still warm from her body when he pulls it out of the paper bag and stands there with it, making incredulous eye contact with Sam, who’s eyebrows have shot up into his hairline. He’s got the beginnings of a smile crinkling his eyes and they’re both trying so hard to keep their shit together and act professional.

They burn it, of course, after Dean’s checked again that it’s the right item. They’re not laughing out loud, but the amusement is there in Sam’s relaxed shoulders, in the way his mouth keeps quirking. Dean thinks this is one for the books. He can’t wait to tell… shit, he would really like to tell dad about this one. He thinks he’ll save it for one of those times when dad bangs on about the dangers of the job. Haunted underwear. That’s a new one.

When they’re back in their own room, packing up, they’re both still kind of holding it together, but then Dean cracks and starts laughing and that sets Sam off and then all of a sudden they’re both doubled over, wheezing and snorfling.

-Guess that goes to show, huh? Sam says once he’s calmed down enough to talk.

Dean shoots him a glance from across the room where he’s sitting on his own bed with a stitch in his side from laughing so hard.

-What’s that?  
-You never know what girls have on underneath, Sam says with a wicked glint in his eyes that almost sets Dean off again.  
-Never, Dean says and has to take a breath not to break in the middle of it, “.. judge a book by its cover.”

And they’re back to laughing again.

It’s the most carefree Dean’s felt in weeks. 


	33. Attention

Dean’s seen a lot of what he’s come to think as different versions of Sam. He’s seen the kid banged up and pissed off and coldly calculating and smiling and deferential. He’s seen the street brawler and the college kid and the weirdly still book worm.

He’s gotten to the point where he started thinking he was reaching the bottom of the barrel in some way, which is blatantly stupid when he thinks about it.

Sam is at the bar. He’s got a newly minted ID that states he’s legal to drink and for some reason it works, despite the baby face. It’s probably down to the lanky length of him and the leather jacket, but mostly it’s the attitude. It helps that the place they’re in has a lot of other baby faced college kids mixed in with the after work crowd and the occasional regular. Dean bought him his first beer anyway, before they spilt up. The place is packed, Friday night and after payday, so Dean’s been set up by the dart board for a while, making friends and padding his wallet.

He’s gotten used to Sam in a corner with a book or the laptop, quietly drinking soda and eating something greasy. Sam has an uncanny ability to more or less melt into the background when he wants to, which Dean thinks is interesting, but not all that remarkable. Quiet kid hanging out while his big brother does his thing. Seemed to work well as a cover most of the time.

So Dean’s not really paying attention at first, because he’s not thinking much about it, just checking in every once in a while to make sure Sam’s okay, doesn’t need anything and isn’t being harassed by the staff. It takes him a little while to notice that tonight is different.

Sam is in the middle of a crowd of kids that are probably just a few years older and he’s talking animatedly with a tall blond who keeps resting a hand on Sam’s arm while she touches her own hair, or fixes her dress, or takes another sip of her drink from the tall straw stuck in it. Sam has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and he’s standing with his shoulders pushed back opening his body language all the way into something appealing and attentive. He’s smiling and laughing and looking politely interested in the conversations going on around him, making time, not only for the blond, but for her slightly chubby brunette friend and the three guys that are obviously part of the same group.

Dean thinks something might be going on there that needs his attention too, but the guys he’s playing call him back to the game and Dean distractedly smiles at them and watches the action. It’s not his turn yet, but he knows his opponents are taking it seriously enough that he needs to keep his wits about him.

The next time Dean looks over, the blond and her friends are gone and Sam’s leaning up against the bar, one elbow on the counter, talking with a dark-haired guy who is about as tall as Sam himself, but stockier. The guy seems to be telling Sam something of vital interest, if Dean’s going to go just by the way Sam is looking at him, all consideration and focus. Sam isn’t smiling, but there’s an amused tilt to his mouth and a particular set to his shoulders that reads as something slightly more confidential than the other exchange.

Dean gets distracted again by the guy he’s up against at the dart board and he’s more or less only got one game left to see who’s won the little impromptu tournament they’ve got going so he turns away from Sam. He wins, of course he does, he’s spent years practicing with throwing knives in circumstance that were a lot more dire than these. He kind of likes the honesty of the game, though, the fact that he’s not necessarily hustling anyone right now, he’s just better at throwing pointy things with accuracy than the guys he’s been competing with. And no one is about to get pissed off at him for it, either, which is a bonus as far as he’s concerned. He’s taking small bets, nothing that’s going to hurt anyone’s pride, which means it really is just a friendly game. It’s doughnut money, nothing more.

He’s been idly talking engines with a guy named Curtis who is a bit of a car buff, but who talks about cars in the way someone who’s read far too many car magazines does, and not like someone who’s ever been elbow deep in a wreck trying to either gut it or put it back together. Curtis is the kind of guy who has memorized a lot of statistics in that infatuated way that means he’s fantasizing about owning something a lot sexier than what he’s actually driving. Dean thinks it’s kind of funny, but it makes the small talk pleasant enough.

Half of Dean’s attention is still on the kid, though. He should be used to that by now, it’s been months, but it still feels new.

It’s when Dean looks over next and sees Sam brushing back a long curl of dark hair over the shoulder of a lovely, curvy brunette that Dean finally clocks on to what he’s been seeing.

Sam is smiling that friendly all-to-the-surface smile and he’s tall and lean and welcoming, and despite the fact that he’s not doing anything noteworthy there’s still something arresting about him that reads like danger to Dean. That’s probably because Dean knows that stance, that particular alignment of hips and shoulders and the loose and easy readiness to the way Sam holds himself. This is not the knife sharp, deadly version of Sam Dean met in a parking lot hanging out with a bunch of cholos, but there’s certainly something there that has had people approaching him all night long. What’s more interesting is that Sam’s been letting them.

Sam’s been set up by the bar for the past hour or so, making people come up to him. It clicks for Dean that that’s what he’s been seeing. People have been noticing Sam sitting there alone and they’ve been going up to him, coming on to him, trying to get into his personal space and touch him and Sam’s been letting them.

Now, Dean’s not a jealous guy. He’s not. He’s never really had any reason to be, and, listen, it’s not like he’s ever had grounds for that bullshit with anyone he’s been with. He’s always been the one to walk away, to keep it casual. What he is, though, and he will admit it, is protective. And it’s not because he doesn’t think Sam can handle himself. It’s not about some abstract idea that Sam is vulnerable. Dean’s just never had all that many things that were really his to look after, so when he does have something, or someone, he tends to get shielding and that leads to some pretty intense thoughts about the nature of things.

Sam can do whatever he likes.

No, wait a minute, that’s not right at all.

Sam _will_ do whatever the fuck he wants.

He’s made that pretty clear. Dean’s not going to even begin thinking about anything like trying to interrupt Sam if he’s looking to hook up. Dean doesn’t think that’s really what he’s seeing, though.

Like he said before, Sam’s usually set up in a booth somewhere, reading and surfing around and more or less blending in with the fixtures. Right now, right here, Sam is very much in the spotlight and looking like he’s having the time of his life every time someone comes over to start a conversation and it’s like people are vying to keep him entertained. Which is fucking strange. Sam is not half bad to look at, it’s not that. From where Dean is standing, though, it’s about more than that.

The downside of having spent so many nights, too many nights, in places like these and in crap motel rooms with only old movies for company is that Dean has a rich backdrop of knowledge to draw from and sometimes it lines up things in his head in a way he doesn’t expect. He’s standing there, in the shadow of an alcove with a pitiful dreg of beer in his glass and he’s thinking about what he’s seeing and that black-and-white Coppola movie pops into his head. Sam’s hair is falling around his face in way that only highlights how sharp his cheekbones are, making his eyes glitter oddly, and how he looks right now makes some throwaway line from that movie resurface. _He’s like royalty in exile._

People are drawn to Sam and Dean’s willing to bet they don’t even really understand why. They don’t know what it is that catches the eye and makes their attention stick. Dean’s seen this before, usually with offbeat pretty women, but sometimes with guys too. Hell, sometimes it’s been him at the bar, legs splayed out just so, back to the bar and eyes on the crowd, just waiting for the right thing to happen, for circumstance to align. Dean knows how to carry himself, at home and comfortable in his body, knows how to work that just right, most of the time not even thinking about it consciously. Awareness and something more, something that just draws notice.

Sam told him point blank that he didn’t feel like hooking up right now. Sam’s told him a lot of things that have made Dean cautious of getting in too close, being too physical. Sam’s detached and slightly hostile more often than not, actually. Maybe that’s just with Dean, but that doesn’t even sound true in his own head when he thinks it. Sam is up to something right now and it looks a hell of a lot more calculated when Dean thinks about it in those terms than if the kid was just cutting loose and having a good time. Sam hasn’t been drinking much, hell, Dean doubts that he’s even finished one beer in the time they’ve been here, even though Dean’s seen more than one person try to buy him drinks.

Dean takes the offer of another round of darts and plays the winner of another little mini tournament, joking and bullshitting on autopilot while keeping Sam in his peripheral the whole time.

More people try it on and every time Sam smiles and talks and interacts like he’s paying attention, but no one gets more than a casual touch, a fleeing impression of a smile, a polite brush off. Sam is hustling in the worst way, putting things out there that obviously aren’t on the menu and Dean keeps waiting for someone to get pissed off about it, but that just doesn’t seem to happen. Every person he interacts with walks away in good spirits. It’s nothing Dean’s ever seen before.

-You gonna go over there? Curtis asks all of a sudden and Dean turns back to him.  
-Huh? Dean asks, already knowing he’s been just distractedly nodding along with whatever the guy has been going on about for the last couple of minutes.   
-To whoever’s got your attention at the bar, Curtis says with something a little snide to his tone, like he’s noticed where Dean’s been looking and he doesn’t approve.

Dean’s first impulse is to say “just keeping an eye on my kid brother, man”, but then he thinks about it for three more seconds and figures fuck this guy with his car fetish and his ill disguised disapproval. He smiles and thanks the guys he’s been playing for a good game and then meanders off.

Sam sees him coming over the shoulder of the mid-thirties office worker he’s talking to at the moment. She obviously hasn’t had a chance to change clothes before coming out tonight, but the pencil skirt she’s wearing is doing wonderful things for her calves. She’s got runner’s legs and that’s always been something Dean’s appreciated, enough athleticism in a partner to push back. Dean lets his eyes go all the way down and then back up again. Nice. Sam sees him do it and Dean kind of expects him to be disapproving, but instead Dean catches more of that muted amusement there.

-Hey, Dean says and watches as the girl, no, woman, actually, turns to look at him. “How’s your night going?”

The woman’s about as subtle in checking him out as he was with her. Oh, she likes what she sees, that’s obvious, and there’s something so unabashedly predatory in the way she looks from him to Sam and then back to Dean again that he almost laughs. He can see what she’s thinking and it’s really ambitious of her. As well as completely misguided.

-On and on, Sam answers with a smirk.   
-You going to introduce me to your friend? The woman asks.   
-Actually, I think we’re going to call it a night, Sam says.

And that does absolutely nothing to dim the sheer greedy covetousness in the woman’s eyes. Dean’s hackles rise a little, for some reason. The look on her face makes her ugly, oddly enough. Dean’s usually all for people who know what they want and aren’t afraid to go after it.

-You about had enough? Dean asks.   
-Yeah, sure.   
-Let’s go then. Nice to meet you, Dean says to the woman as an afterthought and turns to walk away.

He hears her protests behind him, hears her extend an invitation to Sam and to Dean as well, but he’s too far away by the time Sam answers to overhear what it is he says that makes the woman look so perturbed. Seems like Sam was a little less polite with that brush off.

Dean can literally feel eyes on them as they walk out. It’s in part due to training and in part just experience. Sam’s at his shoulder, half a step behind him and he doesn’t even have to look around to know there’s more than one envious glance cast their way tonight. He’s walking out with the guy that’s been standing at the bar like a bright shining light all night long and that no one has managed to get close to, try as they might. It’s making him feel a little dishonest and dirty even though it really appeals to his stupid fucking ego at the same time. Dean’s spectacularly aware how dumb that is.

Dean thinks in terms of unity and brotherhood when it comes to Sam, sure, but he’s thinking other things too, like how he would have tried if they didn’t know each other. And he’s sure he would have. He would have seen that kid at the bar and he would have recognized him, even if they had never met before. He would have known the body language and he’s pretty sure he would have gotten more than anyone else who tried. He wouldn’t have been shocked at all at the scars on the kid when he got him back to his motel and had him naked. He would have known not to push too hard and when to take a softer line. And he wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if the kid had been back in his clothes and out the door five minutes after getting off.

Instead of any of that happening, though, they go back to the motel, which is in walking distance from the bar. Dean’s aware that both he and Sam are keeping an eye on their surroundings as they amble along. There’s no real sense of a threat, but that doesn’t really mean that either he or Sam relax their vigilance.

There’s still a kind of over aware energy between the two of them too. Dean thinks it’s in part the way Sam acted tonight and in part the fact that it feels to Dean like he pulled the best looking person in the whole fucking bar and his body has ideas about that, even if he knows nothing will come of it. Or at least he doesn’t think anything will come of it. Shit, it’s not like he’s not up for it.

Sam can be manipulative. Dean knows that. He’s got the distinct feeling that he was shown something tonight, that most of the whole thing at the bar was for Dean’s benefit, somehow. He’s just not sure what to make of it. Maybe he’s being stupid and over thinking it, but things have gotten so complicated with Sam that it’s more likely he’s missing the subtleties and oblique meanings of Sam’s behavior.

They wind up watching the fifties version of D.O.A and working their way through most of a six pack. Sam is loose limbed and smiling and Dean is just as pleased about that as he is that they managed to not get into a brawl tonight. Or get jumped in the parking lot. Or that he didn’t have to watch Sam walk out the door with some girl, or guy apparently. That would have made Dean worry about him. Which is even more stupid than being pleased that he’s the one that got to take Sam home, even if it’s just to corny nineteen fifties dialogue, cheap beer and rented yellowed sheets.

Protective. It seems to be a feeling that lives pretty close to possessive, now that Dean thinks about it with the kind of mellow clarity that a couple of beers can sometimes give you.

He’s going to have to be careful about that.

 


	34. Physical

Sam’s stance is the loose easy readiness of a trained fighter. He’s wearing the ratty jeans and torn hoodie he had on the first time Dean saw him. His unkempt hair has fallen to cover his face, hiding his eyes. He’s holding a gleaming blade with a dark hilt, something curved and wicked that seems molded to his hand. The light plays tricks along the edge, looking like it’s kicking off the same kind of sparks a fire striker would.

They go from watching each other to circling, making small adjustments along the way to parry a coming assault. There’s an attack coming, Dean’s sure of it. In the diffuse light Dean can sense the intent more than see it. There’s a build up of anticipation, a keenness.

When Sam does strike it’s with the smooth grace of hard won experience. He moves like water, like a variable endless river, fluid and elegant. The knife goes from his right hand to his left in a underhanded twirling shift and then back to his right again in a straightforward move that makes Dean dizzy from just trying follow the gleam of it.

“Are we dancing?” Dean asks and gets Sam’s enigmatic smile before Sam comes at him hard enough that he has to take a hasty step back to not get eviscerated. “You tell me”, Sam replies in a voice as smooth as honey as he reaches out to grab the back of Dean’s neck before raising the blade again and aiming right for Dean’s solar plexus. It’s a killing blow, angled straight for his heart and it’s delivered up close and personal.

They say you never dream your death. They say you wake up before death really gets a grip on you.

They talk a lot of shit.

Dean wakes up to the slanting light of a grey dawn. Nightmares aren’t anything remarkable. They aren’t even really that surprising. But the thing is… yeah, this wasn’t a nightmare so much, judging from the raging hard on he’s got going. Oh, he’s a twisted puppy, all right. Not like that’s news.

Dreams and dream interpretation, Dean thinks and hears Sam’s cool, distant voice, a memory of a conversation by the roadside and all that talk about how everything is always about sex and death. Dean blows out a long slow breath and thinks it wouldn’t hurt if his subconscious was a little more subtle.

-You alright? Sam asks.

He’s already up, sitting on his bed with the laptop actually on his lap. His eyes are on Dean and Dean’s not ready to deal with that right now. He grunts something vague in reply and rubs at his eyes before stumbling over to the bathroom and starting the shower. The weird juxtaposition of being shoved out of a dream with a knife wielding Sam to the sleep tousled, barefoot, sweatpants wearing relaxed kid on the bed just threw him for a wild loop. Dean wouldn’t have minded crawling right over Sam to bite at his lips and grind him into the mattress. And that’s when he can still see the river of red flowing down his own chest from where the knife was hilted in his heart. Jesus. Auspicious beginning of the day.

Dean’s drifting meandering lifestyle is difficult sometimes. He thinks about it while he’s in the shower. They try to maintain a kind of routine, running in the mornings and then breakfast and checkout, if they’re not sticking around. They try to eat around the same time and find ways occupying themselves when there’s not a hunt on. When there’s work to do all that gets thrown out of whack, mostly because there’s no way to predict how intense a hunt will get. Sometimes there are days of nothing but research and sometimes they hardly even have time to settle in before heading out to a graveyard or to interview a potential witness. But there are swathes of boredom too. It’s all hurry up and wait and Dean’s so used to it that he doesn’t think he could ever handle the sheer routine of a nine-to-five with lunch at noon.

It explains some things. Like how Dean’s dreams turn vicious when he’s got time to process. Or how being inactive makes his skin crawl after a couple of days. He knows he can’t afford to think too much about things because that’s just going to drive him crazy. If he starts thinking about how there are forces out there aligning against them, like hunters and demons and his own father, for fuck’s sake, he’s going to feel the weight of all that pressing down on him so he tries to just not think about it.

Which means he thinks about it all the time. Of course he does.

He hasn’t forgotten that his dad said some pretty horrific things the last time they were in a room together. Dean also knows that no matter what his dad thinks, no matter what Bobby and other hunters think, they’re not going to be able to keep up surveillance on the kids that dad insists are so dangerous. They can’t kill the innocent outright. Or, sure, they could, but that would bring down a shitstorm that Dean knows they’re not ready to handle. He’s not naïve about what hunters are. There are some that will go after anything even vaguely strange, anyone that is just a little off the meter of what they deem to be human. He’s sure there are a couple of kids who have “disappeared” by now, leaving crying relatives behind. Dean’s pretty sure dad wouldn’t do that, or at least he hopes dad won’t, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it. Or Sam’s.

There are too many real hunts, though. That’s the thing he pins his hopes on. There aren’t all that many hunters, or at least not that many good ones, and there are too many strange things that go bump in the night for them to set up shop and just lay in the tall grass waiting for these kids to go Carrie. He’s sure there are measures in place. He’s also pretty sure that most of those kids are being treated like unexploded ordnance. If you leave them alone they won’t do any harm. And Dean’s come to the realization that he’s part of those measures. He’s willing to bet that dad thinks he’s keeping Sam close to keep an eye on him.

The reason he and dad playing phone tag right now is because John’s pissed at him for the perceived disobedience more than anything else. Dean and Bobby don’t usually talk all that much if there’s not something on, so he’s not particularly worried about not hearing from him. Dean still feels the pressure of the implied attention and the prospective watchers out there, and the thing with Sam and his dreams is another kind of surveillance that’s really troubling and like he said, if he thinks too much about all that it’s going to drive him nuts. So he doesn’t. Except for when he does.

Demons are a big deal. They’re scary in a way that pretty much nothing else Dean’s ever encountered is. Most of the hunts Dean’s taken on are either ghosts or creatures and no matter how weird that gets, no matter how dangerous, that’s still not the same as tangling with something that is actually evil. That’s the biggest difference. Werewolves, for instance, aren’t inherently evil. Their actions might be perceived that way, but they aren’t worse than anything else that would like to eat you. Like lions. Ghosts can be terrifying under the right circumstance, and poltergeists are always a fucking mess, but they’re still not evil in the truest sense.

It’s the action and the intent that makes all the difference.

What little Dean knows about demons is enough to make him really nervous. The older something gets the more powerful it becomes. The keener the senses and the purpose, the more damage. Demons, as far as Dean understands them, are old and malevolent and more or less in it for the blood and the chaos and destruction. Pretty much anything else has rules to follow, be it phases of the moon or restrictions in where it can go, or boundaries it can’t cross. There’s always something. But with demons… there are weapons, sure, but you have to get a lock on them first and they can go pretty much wherever the fuck they want as far as Dean knows. Including in to Sam’s dreams, apparently. It’s a wonder the kid’s still sane, actually. If he is. It’s not like Dean’s the best judge of mental health.

You get nightmares. You get weird dreams and paranoia and an overactive imagination and the shakes and the very unprofessional heebie-jeebies. What really makes all that worse is that there are things to be afraid of in the dark. And in the dusk. And at dawn and in broad goddamned daylight. Dean tries not to think too much about that either, even if it’s always at the back of his mind, percolating.

Instead of thinking any more about any of that Dean takes care of himself in the shower with minimal thought involved, just slick, efficient friction and then they head out to get breakfast.

Sam’s sitting across from him working on a stack of pancakes with bacon and syrup and the biggest cup of coffee he could get his hands on. He’s sitting hunched forward a little, elbow on the table, half corralling his food, which seems to be a mostly unaware gesture. He’s eating with only his fork, sawing at the pancakes and smearing the neatly bisected bits through the syrup. Dean’s actually not up for more than eggs and toast today. The way he woke up makes him reluctant to go for meat. That happens sometimes.

He’s never told his father about that either, pretended to have an iron constitution when he was a just a shit-scared kid, ordered something greasy and bloody after hunts just to prove himself. He was always so damned eager to show himself strong enough, no matter what the circumstance were. Not having an appetite was a dead giveaway to dad, who somehow got it in his head that boys were always hungry, no matter what. Dean can remember sitting across from his father in a diner not unlike the one they’re in now, with the leaden feeling of disgust threatening to make him throw his breakfast right back up all over John’s boots. Never did it, but he came close a couple of times.

Dean kind of wants to ask Sam about that thing at the bar. And maybe that thing at the roadside too, but he knows he never will. He’s not looking to open that particular can of worms. Chalk it up to heightened emotions in a time of crisis or something. If he was looking for the meaning of things, the hidden motives, he thinks his dreams are probably a pretty good indication of what’s really going on. Sam could probably gut him, metaphorically as well as with an actual blade at this point. Like Dean said, his subconscious ain’t exactly subtle.

Sam is giving him the kind of intermittent attention that’s more or less their usual this early in the day. Neither of them are hung over and neither of them are talking much and that’s fine. It’s only unnerving Dean right now because he’s letting the lull in action get to. It doesn’t have much to do with Sam, really, more the feeling that there are things arrayed against them. He wants to be doing something. Waiting for Pastor Jim to get back to his parish is wearing on Dean for some reason. He’d like some answers at this point, sure, but that’s more for the kid than for him. At least he thinks it is. Or … something like that. Fuck Dean’s not even sure anymore.

There’s a risk at this point, Dean thinks, of all this turning into something he actively tries to stay the hell away from. He’s said, he fucking promised, that Sam is not a job. Sam is not a hunt. He’s been saying that left, right and centre, actually. But that means that he can’t think of it in the same terms as he would a hunt, so there goes the short term perspective. And if that’s out the window then the other option is that this is beginning to feel like a quest. Those are too damned close to crusades for comfort and Dean’s looking at the slightly disheveled, skinny kid across from him thinking about what that actually means.

Strays are a commitment. Oh, wow. Dean thinks back to some of the talks he’s had over the years with dad and with Bobby about the idea of strays. There’s a reason he’s left cats and dogs with Bobby and at shelters and with welcoming families. Dean’s never really had the foundation to keep them. With people, with kids, there’s always been somewhere to take them, someone to leave them with. He’s got the feeling now that he should have done that back when they first met, him and Sam. He should have taken him to Jim’s, or … somewhere, anywhere. Should have left him there to be cared for and taken care of better than Dean can do and then maybe all this would never have gotten to the point where it is now.

-You’re thinking heavy thoughts, Sam says and his voice is low and soft.

Dean blinks him into focus, realizing he’s probably been staring for the last couple of minutes, completely lost in his own head.

-You’ve got a face, Sam tells him.   
-Yeah, I was born with it.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him and Dean can hear the sardonic “oh, please” as loud and clear as if Sam had said it.

-Stuff on my mind, Dean tells him, hoping that will be enough.   
-I can see that.

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and tries to think of something to do today, some way to distract Sam from the fact that there’s … stuff.

-That stuff, Sam says calmly, “got something to do with me?”  
-Maybe. A little bit.

Sam gets that look. That evaluating, weighing-things-up look. It’s always unsettling when the kid does that. He looks seventeen going on a hundred every time. Oh, sorry, eighteen. Eighteen going on a hundred. Maybe because of that Sam doesn’t pursue it. Instead he just shrugs and asks what they’re doing today. Dean’s kind of grateful for that.

It’s actually Sam that suggests they go do something physical. Sparring, boxing, something like that. Dean thinks this is probably the direct opposite of what he would have come up with, but he rolls with it. It’s not like that’s ever a bad idea.

The gym Sam finds for them is nothing like that place they went before. This is all ridiculously clean and modern and off white. It’s decorated, for god’s sake, like a dojo, with ferns and palm trees in the corners and large opaque windows and wood screens and some kind of funky textile things hanging on the walls that have Chinese characters drawn on them. It even smells nice, kind of citrusy. It’s all so very deliberate and over the top neat that it looks like a movie set and that makes the sweating, grunting patrons look oddly out of place with their gym clothes and red faced exertion.

They pay their fee and warm up and then they spend a couple of hours getting ridiculously physical with each other.

Now, Dean’s stronger than Sam. Maybe not by all that much, but he’s bigger and heavier, even if Sam might just be edging towards actually being a little taller. Sam doesn’t have a lot of muscle mass, but what is there is solid and not to be messed with. He’s more of a brawler than a disciplined fighter, but Dean thinks he more than makes up for it by fighting smart instead of just barreling in and trying for take-downs that he could never pull off with someone like Dean who’s been training since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. Dean’s used to sparring with someone bigger and meaner and heavier and more experienced, so he knows just how incredibly frustrating that can be.

Instead of doing what John did, which was mostly to slap Dean down and demand that he get right back up and go at it again, Dean thinks of the few times that he trained with other guys, other hunters and this really cool guy named Brandon, a mixed marital artist that Dean met in Sacramento. He doesn’t channel John’s dogged marine slap down techniques. It only ever made him angry and aggravated when he couldn’t seem to do anything right and was yelled at for it. So instead he thinks of Brandon’s calm voice when he guided Dean through new moves and then demonstrated them in slow motion before letting Dean try and try and try again until the action started gaining muscle memory. It’s still simple things, like blocking blows and easy take downs and how to disarm someone with a knife.

Sam soaks it all up like a sponge, like he’s been waiting for just this kind of thing to direct all that vicious raw ability into some kind of discipline.

They draw an audience. Dean should have seen that coming. It makes Sam a little edgy at first, distracts him, but Dean’s got his wrist in a tight grip at the moment and he taps the inside of Sam’s wrist with two fingers bringing his attention back to Dean. When Sam makes eye contact Dean tilt his head just enough to tell him to keep his focus. After that Sam doesn’t seem to even notice the onlookers. All his attention is for Dean, watching his eyes and his movements and working his ass off.

They’re on the mats and there are a couple of gym bunnies and a couple of guys that seem to want a piece of the action, and there’s even one of the employees, a big, burly guy with an honest to goodness walrus mustache. Dean sweeps the crowd once or twice, making sure there’s nothing more than just idle gawping going on. Sparring like this, which is more like play-fighting, is fun in a way training with dad never was. It’s easy and lighthearted and really hard work. Sam’s slippery with sweat in no time and Dean’s breathing hard and straining his muscles to keep a hold of the kid who is like a live wire every time Dean gets a grip on him. There’s focus, sure, but there’s also laughter and the kind of lightness that comes from expending plenty of energy and getting the adrenaline going high and hard.

Also, there is _a lot_ of touching.

Dean has done this kind of thing before, so his mind has a very definite line it draws between sweet-touching someone and working. This is work. Playtime is something else, so he doesn’t actually even think about this that way. He got over the inappropriate boner thing years ago when it comes to this kind of situation.

They’re sitting in at the corner of the mat drinking water and cooling off a little when the guy with the mustache comes over. He’s barrel-chested with legs like telephone poles and he’s wearing the requisite polo shirt with the gym’s name emblazoned on the front.

-Boys, he says by way of greeting and Dean’s hackles go right up.

Sam looks him over, nodding a greeting and then going back to swigging his water and inspecting a rug burn on his elbow.

-Looking good out there, the guy says.   
-Thank you, Dean replies, because it seems Sam’s not talking.   
-You do this kind of thing often? He asks.

Dean gives Sam a glance and Sam’s eyes do a half-roll hidden beneath his fringe, just for Dean’s benefit. Yeah, that did sound a little like the gym equivalent of a bad pickup line.

-What kind of thing would that be? Dean asks because who the hell is this guy, really?

The guy grins and his teeth are startlingly white and perfect in contrast with that mustache of his.

-Put on a show like that. That was quite an demonstration. Mixed marital arts, right?   
-Me and my brother were just goofing around, Dean tells him and elbows Sam a little to see if he’s about ready to hit the showers.   
-That wasn’t goofing around, kid, the guy says. “That was a better lesson in self-defense than my top instructor gives on his best day.”

Dean’s kind of torn between commiserating and saying thank you. He’s trying really hard not to smart off to the guy, because really, what the hell? He just nods kind of noncommittally instead and he can feel the amusement radiating off Sam now.

-Who d’you train with? the guy asks, still not taking the hint.

Dean just looks at him. He’s not sure what kind of expression is on his face now, but Sam just went a little tense by his side. The guy is still looming over them and it’s starting to kick at Dean’s reflexes and his blood is still up, so that’s not a good thing. He’ll give the guy credit, though, because he obviously senses that this isn’t going the way he wanted it to. He works with people all day long in the most physical sense possible, so it’s not surprising that he can read the body language going on in front of him. He shifts his stance into something more relaxed and non-threatening, but it’s a little late for that.

-Where d’you serve? He asks in a much gentler tone when Dean doesn’t bother answering that last question.

At that Dean makes direct eye contact and just shakes his head.

-Look, I know this is a little out of left field, but I wasn’t kidding. You’re better than my best instructor. I’d really like to offer you a place here, just two or three times a week, teaching some newbies first, maybe. Low level self-defense, attitude more than anything. Maybe some of those fancy disarming moves, the guy says and he gives Dean another of those gleaming white smiles.

Dean snorts and looks over at Sam who is back to looking amused. Bruised, sweaty, languorous in the way a good workout can make you and about as gorgeous as Dean’s ever seen him.

-Yeah, thanks for the offer there, Chief, but we’re just passing through.

The guy looks a little disappointed at that, but he accepts it.

-That’s too bad, but let me at least give you my card in case you change your mind, he says and does just that.

Dean takes the card being held out to him the same way he takes the phone numbers pretty girls shove into his hands. He gives it the same kind of once-over as if to make sure it’s legible and smiles the same kind of “sure, I’ll call” smile. It’s all rote to him at that point, but the guy doesn’t know that and can’t read the insincerity. Sam can, though. They wait until the guy is gone and then they get to their feet.

As they amble towards the showers, Sam elbows him sharply in the ribs.

-Can’t take you anywhere, Sam says in an undertone.   
-Oh, shut up, that was at least half your fault.   
-I-am-the-walrus wasn’t hitting on me, Sam says with glee.

Just for that, Dean puts Sam in a headlock and noogies him all the way to the locker room. They shower and then sweat out the last of the adrenaline in the pretentious little steam room and then they go to find something to eat.

Dean is sitting across from Sam at the Italian place they wind up in, looking at the kid as he inhales a huge plate of Alfredo and feels pretty good about how the day turned out. He can’t really pinpoint when it changed, but he can’t remember why he ever thought Sam was untouchable. When Sam looks up from his food Dean thinks maybe that was actually the whole point of the day, Sam getting in closer and closer and Dean even knows what his sweat tastes like now, knows how he feels against Dean’s body when his pulse is pumping hard and his muscles are straining. It’s … nice, actually. Nice and more than a little disarming. And kind of promising too. 


	35. Reset

Dean’s idly reading a local newspaper when Sam comes back empty handed from his coffee run looking completely locked down, pale and focused.

-We need to go, Sam bites out before Dean’s even had a chance to open his mouth and spout some quip about getting lost on the way to Starbucks.

It’s been a lazy couple of days, so Dean’s really not ready for the amount of edgy energy pouring off Sam, or the way he starts haphazardly shoving his things into his bag.

-What’s going on?

Sam stops only for a fraction of a second and looks at him, thoughts obviously miles away and already halfway down the road and out of town. He visibly gathers himself up and squares off, shoulders back and pulled taut.

-We need to go. Right now.  
-Okay. Why? Dean asks sitting up now and trying get a handle on what the fuck is going on.

Sam gives him a frustrated look and snorts out a breath before going back to packing. He talks half turned away.

-In five minutes I’m out the door with or without you. When you called and told me to rabbit I did, no questions asked. This is the same fucking thing. Rabbit, Dean. Right now.

Dean thinks this is nothing like the same thing, not even a little bit, but Sam is obviously spooked and Dean doesn’t doubt that in five minutes Sam is going to walk out, weather Dean’s with him or not. He gets to his feet and starts pulling his things together.

-Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Sheesh.

Sam doesn’t spare him another glance, just finishes shuffling everything into his bag and heads for the door. Dean has to hustle to keep up.

He figures once they’re in the car he can ask what the fuck just happened, but right now the level of anxiety and sheer urgency Sam is putting out means he’s going to have to put all that on hold.

They get in the car and Dean points it towards the highway. Sam is a coiled live wire in the passenger seat, staring out the window and scanning the surroundings until they’ve left main street and the town’s welcome sign behind. Dean can’t help slanting him glances and opening his mouth to ask, shutting up every time because the kid doesn’t look scared, he looks like he’s about to blow up and Dean doesn’t think it would be smart to set him off right now.

-Where am I heading? Dean asks instead, because hurry like this has always meant going somewhere to him, has always meant some time sensitive hunt.  
-Away, Sam says curtly, sounding so much like the kid Dean first met that he’s a little taken aback by it.

Dean shuts up and drives.

It takes him a couple of hours before he feels like he can even let up on the gas and stop to refuel and piss and find them something to eat. Sam has gradually come down from DEFCON 1 to something more manageable, but he’s still tense and visibly miserable. He’s chewing on his thumbnail and staring out the windshield and not fidgeting. It’s the not-fidgeting that unnerves Dean the most, because it’s the best indicator of how wound up the kid really is. Dean’s kept the radio on and just drove, not particular destination and that seems to have worked pretty well for the kid so far.

They need to have a conversation and Dean knows Sam knows that too. He needs to know what they’re dealing with in order to be able to be useful. He needs to know if he should be getting ready for a fight. Seems redundant to think about it in those terms, of course he needs to be ready for a fight, but that’s more or less situation normal for him and whatever is up with Sam right now, it’s nothing like normal.

When Dean pulls up at a truck stop, Sam puts a hand on his elbow as he goes to get out of the car. Dean turns to him, taking in the brooding look on the kid’s face and the way he’s still holding himself like he’s expecting something to come out of the shadows and grab him to drag him off. It’s kind of sad that Dean knows exactly what that looks like, but then again, that’s the life.

-Cash only, Sam says.

It’s not a request. Even the inflection of the words is the same as the way Dean spoke them back in that diner bathroom hiding from his dad.

-Sure. You want coffee?  
-Yes. And watch for cameras. Much as you can, okay?

Oh, they’re running, all right. Dean gets it. He’s done this before, once or twice when he’s been caught in some really right spot. They’ve drawn federal attention a couple of times, him and dad, and he’s actually pretty well prepared for this kind of thing.

-Don’t worry about it, Dean reassures, but Sam’s grip on him just tightens and Dean has to turn back again.  
-This fucking boat of yours ain’t exactly discreet, Dean.  
-Don’t talk shit about my car, Dean snaps back on automatic.

When Sam doesn’t let up Dean lets go of the door and settles back facing Sam. Sam takes his hand away and just looks at him.

-Image distortion, Dean says with a shrug.

Sam’s expression doesn’t change at all.

-Look, I know how noticeable she is, okay? So she’s got a little mojo under the paint. Nothing too serious, just enough to throw off cameras and speed traps and stuff like that. People see a big black car. The cameras see whatever the person looking at the image thinks they should be seeing.

Sam gives him a tight nod, the one that says “good” and doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the implication there that Dean’s not above using a little magic to make things easier. He stays in the car while Dean pumps gas and uses the restrooms and gets them coffee and some very belated breakfast. There are sandwich wraps and Dean gets a couple of those, wondering if the kid’s too tied up to eat. He needs fuel, regardless.

Sitting next to a Sam coiled this tightly for the last couple of hours has made the vague beginning of a headache start to spark behind Dean’s eyes and he rolls his shoulders trying to loosen up the muscles of his neck and upper back.

Sam is obviously freaked the fuck out and it’s making Dean feel the need to shot something. That’s not necessarily a new impulse, but it sure as fuck isn’t a smart one right now. He’s been patient, putting his attention where it needed to be, just driving, getting them out of the town they were in, hell, getting them right into the next state, and he’ll drive all night if that’s what it takes for Sam to relax.

He just wants to know what the hell is going on first.

Right now, though, he needs not to look like a guy on the run. He’s learned over the years that guys who work in places like this are very good at picking up on stress, looking for threats. Dean knows that the best thing to do is keep as relaxed as possible, not give off that vibe of action and danger, looking like he’s armed and ready to start something. Even if he is. So, instead he makes small talk and asks about local sights and attractions, picks up a couple of brochures and a map and talks about the weather. He makes himself as unmemorable as he possibly can, while still being likeable and charming in the most low key way he can manage. Lucky for him, the guy behind the register is more interested in finishing up his shift and looking forward to drinking a couple of cold ones. That reminds Dean that it’s Friday. It’s easy to lose track of that kind of thing.

He paid for the whole week at the last motel, which might buy them a little time. They never really checked out, just left the key on the nightstand and they had hung the do-not-disturb sign. He’s going to toss the card he used to pay with as soon as he’s got a minute, too. All that’s basic stuff for when there’s someone on your tail. He takes the food and the coffee and pays cash and leaves.

Sam’s first swallow of coffee goes down like water. He’s still locked up tight and it really looks to Dean like battle-readiness more than fear at this point, but that doesn’t help with the headache.

-Start talking, Dean says when he’s got a good one-handed grip on his sandwich and has them back on the road.

Sam stares out the window for a long moment and seems to debate if he’s really going to give anything up at all. It’s not that Dean doesn’t get the hesitancy, it’s just that is still unsettles him that Sam has so much shit going on that he thinks it’s necessary to bolt, and not only that, but threaten to leave Dean behind. If Sam’s in danger then it’s more than a little likely that Dean would be too. He’s been thinking about this and he would love to say that it was an empty threat, but he knows Sam better by now. Sam would have left him eating his dust if Dean hadn’t started moving when he did. That stings. Even now, even after all they’ve already been through, Sam is looking out for number one and he still doesn’t believe Dean will have his back.

Granted, Dean’s not good at just blindly following orders. He hasn’t been that guy for a long time. It still feels so abrupt, like he and Sam hadn’t ever even shared a meal, or had a real conversation. It feels like Sam just reverted back to that kid that let Dean patch him up, stole one of his t-shirts, took a cup of chicken noodle and then hit the road without even saying thank you or goodbye. And that’s stupid, Dean knows that. Getting his feelings hurt. Jesus, what is he, twelve? It’s not like Sam’s made any promises, doesn’t owe Dean anything, even if it feels like Dean’s done nothing but make promises.

Dean takes a deep breath. He’s still got tension, lots of it, but losing his temper with Sam right now would be more than stupid and he’s not going to do that. Sam still isn’t talking, though.

-Hey, kid, come on. Talk to me, Dean says, thinking he can’t help if he doesn’t know.  
-We need to keep moving, Sam says.  
-I got that. I’d like to know why.

Sam looks over at him, Dean can feel it. He gives Sam a brief glance and Sam’s eyes are dark, his face expressionless apart from the underlying tension. There’s that stillness again that Dean has learned isn’t anything good.

-I can find another ride, Sam says and out of all the things Dean expected to hear out of his mouth. Christ.  
-Don’t be a bitch, Sammy, Dean says without heat.

Sam takes another swallow of his coffee and stares at the road ahead of them. Then he rubs his free hand over his face and just breathes for a moment before nodding to himself.

-Okay. Okay. Alright, Sam says. “I have. There’s a guy. Caught up with me twice already. This was the third time. Shouldn’t have been able to find me in the first place. Now… it’s like the third damned time.”  
-Okay. So who is this guy? Dean asks.

Sam makes a disgruntled noise, the kind of huffing sigh that expresses far better than words how badly Sam wants to not talk about this, but that’s just tough because he’s going to have to.

-Someone I trusted. And I shouldn’t have, Sam says and his tone is laced with so much bitterness that all Dean’s frustration just slides away.  
-You think he’s trouble? Dean asks.  
-I know he is.

Dean mulls that over. How the hell does someone track down a homeless, orphaned kid who doesn’t even use his real name? How does some random guy find Sam when he’s been riding with Dean these past months and Dean’s been actively staying off the grid himself, moving fast, only sitting still for like a week at most. And then it was at Bobby’s and that’s like a fortress and a black hole at the same time, no matter who comes looking. Or what.

Shit.

It’s probably not all the way a who, if Dean’s reading this right.

-My kind of trouble, Dean says having lost any doubt about it as he thought that one through.  
-I think that’s more than likely, Sam tells him quietly.  
-Shit, Sam. How longs this guy been after you?  
-Year and a half. Give or take, Sam says and stubbornly doesn’t look at Dean at all.  
-Why? Dean asks and tries to ignore the cold chill that just skittered down his back.  
-‘s a long story, Sam says.  
-Oh, it’s like pulling teeth with you, kid. All your stories are long stories. And fucking complicated. And grim. Come on, lay it on me.

Sam just sits there for a while, mile markers going by, no noise in the car but the road rush.

-You know what it takes to be emancipated? Sam asks.

Dean wasn’t really expecting that. And, no, he has no idea.

-Not really, Dean tells him honestly.  
-Differs from place to place. In my case I had some particulars, as I told you before. You still have to be at least sixteen, though. You have to have a means to support yourself. Proof of residence. Plan for the future. A job. Some of those things, preferably all of them.  
-Okay.  
-I was staying at a halfway house with some other older kids about to age out of the system. Wasn’t the worst place, you know. They were good about trying to equip kids for the future, life skills, that kind of thing.  
-That where you met this guy?

Sam spares him a glance, and there’s the worst kind of calm distance in his eyes. This is the coldly efficient Sam, the one that can relate any horror without even batting an eye. Dean sees it for what it is, icy rational dissociation. A thousand yard stare.

-Sort of. There were classes in learning things like paying your bills and doing taxes and cooking something better than Ramen. I didn’t really need that, so I was sitting in the back doing linear equations and the teacher walks past me, sees what I’m doing and asks the woman who runs the house about me. The thing is, Dean, that he was a good guy.  
-Really?  
-Yeah, really. I can smell a pedo a mile away. I know how to spot the predators and the groomers and weirdoes and the assholes. You know I can. This guy? He was just a genuinely nice guy.  
-Not so much now, though? Dean asks.  
-He’s the reason I asked you how you know who the monsters are, Sam says calmly and Dean thinks back to that conversation.

What had he answered, glibly? “Start with a trail of dead bodies and work your way back from there”. He doesn’t even have to look at Sam to know the kid is watching him now with those hard unreadable eyes. So Dean just keeps the pressure on the gas pedal even and waits for the rest of it. 


	36. Nice Guy

You don’t just let a kid go, especially not when the system has already failed him terribly and he’s put a spotlight on it. You don’t just stow a teenager some place and hope that he’s going to thrive without help, or stop being a nuisance, when he’s got scars on his back that wouldn’t look out of place at a slave market. You don’t allow someone to be punished like that, in a medieval way, and then just turn a blind eye to what has been done.

Sam said something about mandatory counseling and Dean can just picture how that would have gone down. Sam running circles around whatever well-meaning therapist they managed to shake loose for him. Or maybe he got lucky. Maybe they figured out that putting him with someone who could actually treat survivors would be a better course of action. Sam didn’t seem to think so, but then again, it’s hard to tell with this kid.

So Sam, who kept up his grades and never acted out, at least not where the law saw him and it could go on his record, was put in a halfway house. According to the kid it was a low key place, only eight roomers and four staff to deal with them. He doesn’t define if it’s for troubled kids or not, but Dean can guess that no matter how well adjusted these kids might have seemed on the surface, it probably wasn’t a pick nick. So in life skill classes some mathematics professor who volunteered teaching the kids how to balance a checkbook and do a household budget caught sight of little Sammy sitting at the back of class, doing algebra to amuse himself. A bright light. A beacon. Terrifyingly smart.

Sam describes the guy as middle aged, divorced with two grown kids, the youngest of which had just left for college. The guy had a bad case of empty nest syndrome if Dean’s any judge and that’s why he was out there, helping, doing something for the community because he knew someone who knew someone who owed a favor and he had the time anyway.

They got to talking. Dean can just see how that would have gone down too. Sam prickly and reticent and the guy solicitous and well-intentioned. That must have been fun to watch. Like a chess game with un-pinned hand grenades for pieces.

Eventually, somehow, they got to talking about plans. And Sam, who is, let’s face it, smart but really fucking angry underneath that, must have said something that made the guy think he could make a difference. He offered to help Sam. Sam thought he was full of it. The guy went to Sam’s handler, his caseworker, the person in charge of him at the place he was staying and they all had a meeting. Sam tells Dean that at that point he started vetting the guy, doing his homework, asking around about him, looking him up in databases and on the net and he found nothing that indicated the guy wasn’t who he said he was. Unnervingly, Dean thinks Sam’s background check was probably thorough enough to find the guy’s old unpaid parking tickets.

-Some things are standard practice, Sam says. “And I needed help at that point. If I couldn’t get all the things I needed in place, they wouldn’t let me get the emancipation pushed through.”   
-He offered to help?   
-He went one better. He actually helped.

Dean looks at Sam who is sitting with one leg folded up under him now, working on eating that sandwich Dean bought him.

-So what happened?   
-The worst possible thing. Things got good for a while.

Meaning Sam let his guard down, Dean figures.

-Tell me the rest of it, Dean encourages and he hears it in his own voice, a growl of disapproval, the understanding that something bad is coming. Something he probably really doesn’t want to hear, but needs to.   
-I got it all in place, man, Sam tells him. “School was done, college funds, plans. I had a job, nothing major, just bagging groceries, the only thing I could get at my age. And somewhere to go.”

It sounds easy when he lays it all out like that, but Dean knows it can’t have been. He knows how much it takes to keep up with school when your environment is less than stable. He couldn’t cut it, but Sam’s a different story. Must have always been his escape hatch, the idea that he could work his way out. Sam looks at him, steady.

-Thomas Malden, Sam says.   
-That his name?

Sam just nods.

-His oldest son had remodeled an apartment over their garage. Separate entrance, bathroom, a kind of rudimentary kitchen. He offered it to me and I jumped at it. Best deal I could hope for, and then there was the college applications, all that stuff. He helped me with that. He just wanted to help, Sam tells him and Dean recognizes the drifting tone in Sam’s voice.  
-Then it changed, Dean guesses.   
-Not right away. I had a chance, Dean. For the first time it felt like I had options. Still fucked-up and crazy, nightmares, all that, but at least I thought I had a chance.

Okay, Dean can’t do this while driving. He’s watching Sam more than the road at this point and even if he can drive concussed and half blind with pain and blood loss, he can’t really do this. He finds a rest stop and pulls over, cuts the engine and just sits there for a minute, waiting for Sam to continue.

-I built a cannon once out of a pen and a lighter. Some electrical tape. Used it to fire paper clips at the roaches in my room, Sam says calmly.   
-Sam, Dean says, because he doesn’t know what the hell to say at this point. And he doesn’t know what roaches have to do with anything.   
-I’m saying I’ve learned to be resourceful. And no matter how it might have looked, no matter how safe, I’ve always got an exit strategy. Out the window and up the roof. Down in the basement, out the cellar door. In the closet, up the wall, through the ceiling via the crawlspace.

Dean just looks at him. Of course Sam has a way out. It makes more sense than Dean likes for it to do.

-Things changed, Sam says and there’s discomfort in the words. “I woke up one night and he was standing over me, in my room, watching me sleep. I don’t think he noticed I was awake. Or, maybe he did. Maybe that was a part of it. I knew he had a spare key. He wouldn’t have used it like that, not in a million years, and I knew that. Okay? I knew it. He was a good guy.”  
-Did he do something? Dean asks, but he figures that’s not the point here, not at all.

Sam gives him a rictus of a grin, the dead eyes accompanying it bad enough that Dean thinks this is where it all splits apart. But no, of course not, that would be too easy.

-Not my first rodeo. I played possum. He left after a while and I knew that was it. I was screwed. This guy had control over my living conditions, my future, education, my fucking blood money. He had control over all of it after I had worked so hard to get that control out of other peoples’ hands. That was what it was all about at that point. And the man in my dreams told me, after having been silent for months, that what happened to me before was nothing compared to what was coming next. Then he offered to “help”.

Sam rubs his hands over his face and breathes out hard.

-I packed my bag that night. Dropped it out the window. Rode with Malden to work where he dropped me off and told me to have a good day and then I doubled back, got my stuff and ran. Haven’t stopped since.

Dean takes a minute to process that.

-You say he’s found you a couple of times.   
-Yes, Sam says, clipped.

Dean shakes his head. This is bad. This is really bad.

-Has he ever actually really caught up with you?   
-No.   
-Is he keeping his distance or has he just not been able to get close to you?   
-Hasn’t gotten close. The first time… I wasn’t smart enough, still used the last name he knew me by. I got away, but it cost me.   
-It’s worrying that he can find you at all.   
-That’s not what worries me, actually. Look, with everything I’ve learned over the last couple of months and everything you’ve told me, I kind of think he’s possessed.   
-Probably. That or some kind of shapeshifter took his face.   
-I don’t think so. It’s the same guy, just. Before he always had this … air about him, you know, a little dorky, a little old fashioned, but. Kind. Now when I see him he gives me the creeps. Badly. Like when you watch something so wrong it’s like biting down on tinfoil.   
-Well, your instincts are good, Dean tells him and he means it too.

The problem with all this is, Dean has no clue what to do about it. It rankles with him, badly, that they’re running from this thing. That’s really not who he is. He has no idea what to do about it, though. He can’t put a couple of rounds in this guy, dispose of him. Dean’s never done an exorcism himself. He’s seen it done, he’s been a witness, but it’s not in his skill set. And, even if it was, they’d have to catch the guy first. Hold him, too. Dean’s read about demons, he’s talked about them with pastor Jim and with whatever other hunter claims to have fought one. He’s seen the aftermath more than once, though, and it’s never pretty.

Sam is looking at him, waiting.

And Dean looks right back at him, thinking “who are you?” And, really, who is this kid? What the fuck is going on with him that he’s got these kinds of problems.

-Were you going to tell me? Dean asks before he’s even thought that one through.   
-Not unless I had to, Sam answers and he’s unrepentant with it. Like he is with pretty much anything.   
-Sort of a pattern with you, Dean says and he can’t help the way that comes out vaguely accusing.   
-Can you blame me? Sam asks, eyebrows going up. “I sound like a raving lunatic with most of this stuff.”   
-Is there anything else?

Sam’s smile is flat, more like a facial tick than something he means.

-Probably, he admits. And then he shrugs like it’s inconsequential.   
-Try not to keep the kind of secrets that are going to get us killed, okay? Dean tells him.   
-Us? Sam asks.   
-Yeah. Still “us”, Dean confirms and then lets that just sit there between them for a long silent moment.

-I talked to Bobby about this stuff. Demons, you know?

Dean’s got no idea why he’s surprised by that. He really should know by now that the kid is usually a couple of steps ahead of him. He’d been idly toying with the idea of calling Bobby, even if he knows that would probably get back to John faster than he’d like.

-What did he say?   
-Told me… essentially that I shouldn’t bother my pretty little head about it. Not in those words, of course, but there was something in there about not getting into the heavy stuff until I was older.

Yeah, that makes sense. Bobby probably thought he was protecting Sam. He used to do the same kind of thing to Dean when he was younger. It’s sweet in a way, but completely misguided, especially in light of all this. And Dean knows Sam spent hours in Bobby’s library, spent time with the man himself, too. That whole “idle curiosity” thing that those two had going… it’s more like nosey cats, really. And Dean thinks they’re all so far behind, that’s the real issue here. They really are eating dust, him and dad and Bobby. Dean’s stray is not what they think he is, even when they all say they don’t know what he is. It’s enough to give Dean the beginnings of a brand new kind of headache.

-He means well, Dean says.   
-I know that. Doesn’t really help, though, does it?

And Sam’s a guy who knows a little too much about good intentions. That probably accounts for at least three of the double meanings hiding in those simple words.

-You’ve run from this guy before. Successfully, I mean. Is it enough to just pick up and leave?   
-You mean is he following us right now? I think. Probably. Yeah. Most likely. I poked a hornet’s nest when I went after my money, but nothing came of that, so this is more than likely something else. I don’t know how he tracks me.   
-You think it has anything to do with your dreams?   
-Again, probably. You do warding and things when we sleep, most of the time. Seems to help, but I can’t tell for sure.   
-I’ll teach you all of that. I mean everything you haven’t already picked up. Anything we can do, really.

Sam nods along, doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. This is all so much. Dean can’t even begin to think how the fuck Sam survived alone, unprotected, thinking this was all in his head, or in his dreams and never even… yeah, that’s not a productive line of thought. He’s not in a right mind to work this out right now, anyway, and he’s got a healthy dose of adrenaline running heavy in his blood with nowhere to go and nothing to fight. No wonder Sam was so edgy those first few days. And no wonder he sleeps better in the car.

-I want to help, Sam, you know… Dean starts, but Sam holds up a hand to stop him.   
-That’s just. One of the things you have to stop saying to me, okay?

Dean takes a good long look at Sam. All right. That’s probably not the kind of thing Sam wants to hear. Actually, now that Dean thinks about it, it’s probably the last thing he should be saying to Sam. Shit. He’s been saying that a lot, hasn’t he? Since the beginning. Jesus. Fuck. Verbal cue. And that’s not all of it, either. A lot to unpack in Sam’s little speech there. But then again there usually is.

-Tell me what would be better, Dean says instead of trying to salvage that.   
-I don’t know, Sam answers, but the way his gaze slides away indicates that’s not entirely true.

There’s something Dean can say, something he can use to get his intentions across. Words are really tricky fuckers at times and it should have dawned on Dean sooner, maybe, that there are some things that are completely hollow to Sam, like saying that he wants to help. Actions are better, sure, but Dean still has to be able to declare intent in some way that’s not going to be as fake as a three dollar bill to the kid.

-We’ll figure it out, Dean tries.

That wasn’t exactly it, but it’s something along those lines, Dean thinks, watching the kid for any kind of clue in his body language to what it is he needs to hear right now. It’s not just Dean doing lip service, that’s not what this is, he just needs words that are like finding the right tool in his lock picking kit. It makes Dean feel abruptly tired. And kind of worn down. Old. Stupid thing to think, but him and Sam, they’ve already seen too much, been through too much and it’s one of the reasons all this is like navigating a particularly tricky minefield.

-Let’s just keep moving, Sam says, and some of that same weariness is bleeding through in his tone.

So, Dean does the only thing he can do right now and starts the car. And drives.

 


	37. Calm

Dean thinks Sam must have been a ridiculous teacher’s pet. He must have been the kind of kid who handed in his homework before the due date well annotated. Dean’s already noticed the speed the kid reads at and the way his focus just sticks to the pages or the screen like a pipe bomb could go off right next to him without him losing his place. That doesn’t mean it isn’t just a little eerie to wake up to him soft lit at past three in the morning, still reading.

Sam is calm. Dean wonders about that calm, sometimes. Like now, for instance. It’s the kind of calm that comes from being used to this kind of shit and that’s terrible. Terrifying. It’s not Zen, that calm. It’s something else entirely. It rests on pillars of rage and vulnerability and layers of hurt and betrayal so deep and so profound that it’s grown icy and dangerous. Dean thinks about when he was a teenager, it’s not like it’s decades ago. He remembers all the energy and the directionless anger that felt like it just rose up in him, ready to strike. He remembers all the times he ran himself, heedless of direction, just going to be gone. Dad couldn’t help him then. Nobody could have helped him, even if he had people he could have turned to.

Sam isn’t like anyone else Dean’s ever met and he keeps thinking it’s a crying, fucking shame that no one seems to ever really have seen Sam, seen the incredible strength in him, the things that make him impossible to look away from and not just because the kid is fucking beautiful, okay? Dean’s so far past denial that he knows what it is he sees when he looks at Sam. He sees grace and power and long limbs and messy hair and old scars and gorgeous eyes. He sees the way Sam’s clothes hang on him like he’s still got more growing to do. He sees the kind of face that make people want to take pictures, the kind of sharply defined features that makes people want to paint, for fuck’s sake.

There’s an elegance to the sweep of Sam’s clavicles that makes Dean want to bite and lick and suck kisses there. There’s enough lithe muscle to be deceptive. For all the perceived fragility, Sam can kick like a mule. He can punch a tightly coiled fist at a sensitive cluster of nerves and he holds a knife like he’s cradling an old friend with a temper. There are things in the way Sam tilts his head and narrows his eyes that Dean doesn’t even know the origins of, but that could probably explain the way he can so easily become dangerous when he should just look like a disgruntled cat. There’s something deep in Sam, something way, way down deep that calls to Dean and it’s not a siren song, it’s not malicious the way everyone seems to think. It’s the call of a familiar, like Dean’s found one of his own kind. Maybe the only one of his own kind, because Dean is helpless against it, he really is, but the trick about that is that he doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t fucking mind.

He wants to answer that call. He thinks he has been since they met. He’s been slowly and surely raising the stakes every single time Sam tries to play the game with him, testing Dean to see if he’s still going to be there, if he’s still going to be trustworthy. Dean thinks that if there’s only one thing in his life he can ever pride himself on, he would like for it to be that. Because Sam doesn’t hand out trust like candy, like so many people do. Sam isn’t likely to trust at all. And Dean can’t fault him for that.

Sam’s wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts again, a soft broken-in green one with a stretched out neckline that has slipped down enough that Dean can see the shadow of the bone lying so close to the skin. The structure of him, the architecture of his skeleton is lined in shadows and soft light and Dean’s head isn’t in the right place for any of this right now, because it’s late, so fucking late it’s almost early and Sam is … Sam is too much for Dean right now. He should just turn over and go back to sleep, but instead he’s watching the kid, knowing he’s got another couple of seconds at most, because Sam always knows when there are eyes on him. Especially when those eyes are covetous.

-You sleep at all? Dean asks and his voice is hushed, low and intimate, trying not to disturb the calm that isn’t calm.

Sam looks over at him and it’s like he’s known all along that Dean’s awake. Maybe he did. Probably, he did.

-I slept some.

Dean looks him over.

-Liar.

Sam gives him the vaguest hint of a smile. It’s mostly there in his gaze, the amusement. Dean rubs at his eyes and sits up against the headboard, bunching a pillow behind his back. He crosses his arms over his chest, feels ridiculously exposed all of a sudden. Chilled. The small hairs on his arms stand up and he’s got a shiver running subtly down his back.

-What are you even doing? Dean asks.   
-Reading.   
-So stubborn, Sammy.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him. It’s a very expressive eyebrow.

-Willful. Obdurate, Dean elaborates.

Sam’s eyebrow doesn’t change its mind about Dean. Neither does the rest of his face.

-Obstinate. Intractable… Pig-headed, Dean supplies.

That gets Dean the smile he wanted. It’s the kind of small, crinkled smile that Sam tries to suppress, the kind that shows he’s a little amused even if he doesn’t want to be, a little bit charmed, even if he knows better.

-Usually when I can’t sleep I read, Sam says.   
-Uh-huh. Or you stay up reading so you don’t have to sleep and then you drink enough coffee to keep a Bolivian village in the green for a year.   
-Yeah, well, not all of us rest easy in the arms of Morpheus, Sam tells him.

And it’s right there on the tip of Dean’s tongue to offer his arms as a substitute. He doesn’t say it, but it’s a close thing. Some of that thought might show on his face because Sam looks away from him and back to his book. The chill in the room feels a little too pronounced suddenly. It’s probably part of the reason for the next words that come out of Dean’s mouth.

-Does he talk about me? The man in your dreams.

Sam looks back over at him, eyes deep and hooded and still so very calm.

-Oh, he has some very specific opinions about you, Sam says and there’s that tone, that slightly dark tone that always echoes with Dean in strange ways.   
-I take it he doesn’t approve of me, Dean says. It’s not exactly a question, but then, it doesn’t really need to be.   
-He likes it fine when you keep me alive. The rest of the time he could take you or leave you.   
-That how you feel too? Dean asks and he knows the second he says it that it’s the wrong thing to say.

Sam’s gaze is back to being steady on him now and Dean can feel it, the way all the things underpinning that calm surge in Sam. Mostly it’s the cool icy anger that shows, but some of the other things, the hurt and fear, they make themselves known too. Dean knows better, he really does.

-Shit, he says. “Sorry”.   
-You should be, Sam says bluntly, tone still dark.

Between running for their lives and trying to find a path through all this bullshit, the thing with the demons and the being forced to play a waiting game with Jim and thinking about his father and whatever else is getting thrown at them, they still haven’t addressed that thing at the side of the road and Dean’s mouth runs away with him. He’s bad at this kind of thing, he thinks. He’s bad at being someone’s friend, because all he’s ever known is how to relate to people that are like him, or people that are nothing at all like him - hunters or civilians - and Sam is neither of those.

Dean wants to ask. That’s really a part of the issue. They had that talk about … well, they talked about sex, didn’t they? They talked about all that, but when they did, Dean didn’t ask the things he should have. He’s thought back to that conversation a couple of times and he thinks Sam probably played him through that whole thing. He knows now that Sam has been hurt, he’s been fucking tortured at an age when most kids don’t even understand the concept of something like that. He’s been held prisoner when his only crime was being young and too smart and without family. He’s been punished for being himself. He’s been hounded like a fox at a hunt. He’s been put through so much shit that Dean keeps thinking there’s got to be something that’s kept him together through all that, something that wasn’t just a voice in his head and an iron will.

Dean should have asked completely different questions. Smarter questions. Truer questions. He should have asked if anyone’s ever taken care of Sam the way he deserves. If anyone’s ever been good to him.

They have enough intimacy for this. The way they share space, the way the room feels when it’s just the two of them and they aren’t even talking. They have just enough of that between them that they can talk about some things, like how Sam has a fucking radio dial in his head, but Dean can’t even figure out a way to ask why Sam didn’t kiss him. Dean’s already insulted him now, so it doesn’t look like tonight is the ideal time.

-Can I ask you a question? Dean says.   
-I always thought that was a strange preface for a question. You just did.   
-Half past three in the morning, Sammy. Cut me some slack on the rhetorical, okay?   
-Half past I might not be at my most receptive, but go ahead.

Dean takes a moment. He looks at Sam and he thinks “can I kiss you?”. He thinks it and he knows he shouldn’t be thinking that, but he kind of wants Sam to come over to his bed and maybe straddle his lap and lean in and just give Dean a chance at that mouth. He wants it so much he thinks he’s been making himself a little crazy over it. He could serve it up differently. He could say something like “do you want to hear about a bad idea I have?” or maybe “I’ve been thinking about …” or “I could help you unwind” but he’s not going to. He just basically insulted Sam in the worst possible way when Sam told him what a fucking battle he’s had about not doing what that voice in his dreams suggests.

-Is there anything that helps? Dean asks instead.

Sam knows what he means. Sam looks at him for a long moment. Dean can almost see the thoughts darting around like the silver flashes of fish in a pond. He can almost see the weighing up Sam does of whether his answer is worth the potential cost or not.

-You, he says finally.   
-Flattering, Dean shoots back immediately.   
-Not my intention.   
-I really didn’t think it was.   
-A lot of the time it’s just background noise, you know? Then something happens and I have dreams. Most of it’s just… nightmares. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s not. When you’re around … it’s like you mute it a little. That make sense? Sam asks.   
-Not even a little bit. But whatever I can do, Sam. Okay?   
-Yeah. Thanks, Sam says and his tone is half amused, half sardonic.

Sam gives him another of those looks and it turns unpredictably kind of sly.

-You dream too, you know.

Dean knows. He doesn’t think Sam means the kind of dreams that have him waking up reaching for a weapon, though.

-Do I? Dean asks just to see where this is going.   
-Moaning in your sleep. Like a porno, Sam says and that’s about as blatant as Dean’s ever heard him and he sounds like he means it too.

Dean snorts, amused despite himself.

-Sorry about that, he says and waggles his eyebrows for good measure.   
-Don’t be. Sound like you were enjoying yourself.   
-I’d rather enjoy myself when I’m awake, Dean tells him without even thinking about how much he just raised the stakes again.

Dean isn’t surprised that he had been having a nice dream because he woke up feeling a little open and soft. Or, you know, not soft, because he actually woke up with that heavy feeling pool low in his gut and just… touch hungry. A little restless and a little frustrated and a little too alive in his skin. He’s not as good at this game of keep-away as Sam is. He needs touch. He needs that direct physical kind of connection. He could get it elsewhere, but he doesn’t really want to at this point. Sam just looks at him, eyes glittering in the low light and Dean can’t read a damned thing off him right now.

-What have you got there? Dean asks, but his tone is all wrong for the question, low and inviting.

Sam gives the slightest of smirks at that and tips the book in Dean’s direction. The title is long and complicated and has to do with demons and witch hunting in sixteenth century Europe.

-Ah, a little light reading before bedtime. That should help with the nightmares.   
-Most of this seems to be more about socioeconomic inequality and rampant superstition, Sam replies like it’s all right for that kind of thing to just roll off the tongue at near four in the morning. Wow.   
-You really should try to get some sleep, Sam, Dean tells him.   
-I’m not the one who will be driving tomorrow. Or, you know, later today.   
-Point, Dean agrees.

They’re both quiet for a little while and the room is chilly and Dean’s not sure anymore if that’s because it’s actually drafty or because he’s too tired and this is exhaustion manifesting as chills.

-It’s kind of hard to look away from all this once you delve into it, isn’t it? Sam asks looking down at the book in his hands, turning it over and stroking long slender fingers over the cover. “You start seeing the enemy everywhere.”

Oh, man, that’s … yeah. Dean knows that feeling. It’s the reason it’s so fucking hard for him to watch war movies sometimes. He knows that feeling of sympathizing with some old hand with lost eyes staring out over the landscape and knowing that that’s nothing like his life at all, but he still understands every reaction too well. This is why he didn’t want to bring Sam into this. It’s also why he knows that doesn’t matter because Sam’s in it already.

He should have just gone back to sleep. Maybe his dreams would have been kind to him.

-I don’t get the feeling that you’re in the habit of looking away from anything, Dean says and holds Sam’s gaze to cement his point.   
-I’ve learned that as a rule it’s more dangerous to turn your back. Or a blind eye, Sam says and it’s all there in his tone, just how well he’s read Dean.

Sam knows what kind of dreams Dean woke up from. He knows that Dean’s half hard right now. He knows what Dean’s been thinking, too, probably. Dean looks at Sam and understands that Sam is not going to make a move. Not right now. Not tonight. But something about his tone and his eyes and his hands says that it’s just that the timing is wrong. Dean sighs and gets up and goes to take a shower. He might as well. It’s not like he’s going to get any more sleep tonight. And he’s got driving to do.   
  



	38. Watershed

Sam saves Dean’s life outside an abandoned factory in Indiana.

It’s too easy to forget that Sam isn’t exactly what you would call safe. Not in the sense that there are things about him that are different, or that there are people after him. Or, you know, not people, exactly, but … things. Yeah. So, when Dean thinks about the kid as a kid, as someone young and vulnerable, that’s mostly because when Dean first met him he was running, banged up and bleeding and passing out. It’s colored his perception.

Dean’s used to violence. That’s the thing. He’s grown up on the kind of structured teachings that always included violence as a kind of status quo, something to learn to adapt to. That’s fucked up, sure, but that’s the way things are and there’s no point in thinking that he’s ever going to be able to step away from all that and live a regular life where he gets up in the morning and goes to his nine-to-five and barbecues with the neighbors on Sunday.

There have been too many run down houses and too much honest to goodness deprivation for hunting to tick over into the hero thing for him. Everybody has their own story of how they got into it and how it got to them, two sides of the same coin. Fucked up, always. Dangerous, most always. Sometimes just … stupid. Those are the worst ones, he’s always thought. Dean’s very rarely met someone born and bred into the hunting lifestyle like he’s been. There are some kids on the edges of it, but it’s always seemed to Dean that their parents make an effort to keep them out of it. He honestly couldn’t tell you which is the smarter course of action there.

Dean tries really hard not to let too many preconceived notions rule his impressions of people he meets. Mostly because that is dangerous, too. A lot of the time the things people hide, the way they present themselves, it’s a part of the job for Dean to pick that apart. When people encounter something they don’t understand and can’t explain that defies definition, or turns their world view on it’s head, they don’t really handle that well and he’s got to be able to see past the things people say and do to wash all that away. Dean thinks he does okay with that. He thinks he’s pretty good at reading when there’s something more to a story, or when someone’s afraid of telling what they know because it doesn’t make sense, it can’t be real, they must have seen that wrong.

And, honestly, most of the time that’s actually kind of easy. He’s turned into one of those guys that just automatically assumes everyone has things to hide, and everyone lies to him, like the worst kind of jaded cop. Not without reason, you know, not without knowing that’s probably almost always true. It means his interactions with people are cynical as all fuck and he can’t really do anything about that, either. It’s the way things are. It’s the kind of people he meets. It’s the world he lives in.

So, he shouldn’t be caught off guard, should he? Not by Sam, of all people, who Dean has already figured out is different.

He forgets, though, sometimes. He does. He’s seen Sam sleep-tousled and grouchy in the mornings. He’s seen Sam with his brow furrowed in concentration over something he’s reading. He’s seen him mellow in the aftermath of good food. He’s seen Sam laugh at his own inability to get a move Dean tries to teach when they’re sparring together. Oh, he always gets it in the end, it’s not that, it’s just that Sam actually dimples at him sometimes when they’re in the middle of it, sweaty and high on endorphins. Those dimples are fucking lethal.

The thing is that so is the rest of Sam, and Dean doesn’t exactly forget that, he can still feel the intent of the press of Sam’s knuckles high on his inner thigh with a knife in hand. It’s not that Dean doesn’t know Sam can cut, he’s seen it. With the caustic comments and the quick reflexes Sam is always too sharp, and that’s a good reminder, sure, but Dean actually relegates the more important thing about all that to the back of his mind. It nestles there and Dean lets it, because Sam is not just sharp, he’s damaged too. If Dean thinks about it at all he thinks that’s what makes Sam dangerous. That and the anger.

Dean’s own temper isn’t like that. He blows up at times, sure. Gets pissed off and vents and then he moves on. It’s more of a flash fire with him, the way he reacts. He doesn’t really nurse grudges and carry things around.

Dean knows that Sam is capable of swift vicious violence. He’s seen it, for Christ’s sake. More than once. It always seems cold.

There are grain silos and a defunct railroad crossing nearby and they’re here because there have been a series of strange disappearances in the area around this particular ghost town. It’s not that Dean isn’t expecting trouble, of course he is. All the signs point to this being something’s hunting ground, but they haven’t been able to figure out what it might be. Dean’s money is on a creature, Sam doesn’t have much to say about it, which should have made Dean more cautious, maybe. Hindsight is a bitch.

Unlike so many other hunts it’s broad daylight and they’re supposed to just be poking around, scouting, seeing what there is to see, if they can find a lair, tracks, something like that. It doesn’t go down that way at all.

Dean gets grabbed by a very human, very ordinary-looking guy. The guy is probably forty and some change, dressed in jeans and a hunting jacket. He gets Dean when he’s walking around some random utility building, trying to look in through the windows and Dean has about a second to think “well, shit” when the guy comes up behind him and presses a really big knife to his spine. This is not his kind of job. He understands that in a flash when the guy says “well, lookie here” with a kind of disturbing glee that means Dean’s life expectancy just decreased abruptly.

Disappearances don’t always mean what hunters think they mean. Sometimes they mean something else entirely.

Dean tries to play it cool at first. He stammers something about not knowing he was trespassing and he’ll just be on his way now. The guy laughs. It’s a pleased chuckle that means nothing good and Dean’s already working on ways to distance himself from the guy so he can make enough room to fight back, but it’s obvious that this guy, whatever else he is, isn’t new to this. He keeps control of Dean depressingly easily, staying in close and letting the knife slice through layers of cloth to reach skin on Dean’s back. The message there is pretty clear. If Dean moves the guy is going to sever his spinal cord and that’ll be all she wrote.

Sam comes out of nowhere. Dean’s still blinking rapidly and trying to talk to the guy behind him, distract him enough to be able to fight, so when the angular skinny silhouette of Sam suddenly appears around the corner, Dean’s first instinct is to yell a warning and get Sam the hell out of here.

It’s when the light slants at a different angle and Dean sees the gun already up and pointing just over Dean’s shoulder that he feels his insides go leaden. Sam is walking forward calmly, his face is completely blank and his eyes are … Dean doesn’t really have words for the expression in Sam’s eyes.

-Let him go, Sam says and that cool, calm command is more unnerving than the way the guy behind Dean tenses in reaction.   
-He’ll be dead on the ground before you get a shot off, the guy says and he’s got one arm wound around Dean’s waist now, knife moved up to Dean’s throat.

Dean’s mind goes kind of reluctantly still. He hates this, oh, how he hates this. He thinks about stomping on the guy’s foot, head butting him, trying to get a grip on the knife hand. He thinks about reaching behind him to take a handful of the guy’s junk and twist it. He thinks about all the techniques he’s been taught to get himself out of this particular kind of hold, but the knife at his throat is really fucking sharp and there’s always a margin for error and they blundered into this so unthinkingly and now there’s a gun in the mix and real life isn’t like the movies. Standoffs like this never work out. He could die here. Easily.

-Let him go. Right now, is Sam’s only reply.

There should be another long heady moment of silence, a Mexican standoff, some kind of deliberation, but instead of any of that happening Sam pulls the trigger.

He just pulls the trigger, calm as you please.

Dean feels the scrape of the knife, there’s the clean sensation of a slice, not deep but definitely there, just at the corner of his jaw when the guy jerks to the side. Dean doesn’t waste any time scrambling out of the guy’s reach. The knife is on the ground, dropped in the dust and behind him the guy is making a god-awful gurgling noise. Sam is moving forward and Dean is kicking the knife away, spinning around to get his eyes on the threat.

The guy has crumpled to his knees and is holding on to his own throat with both hands. Sam got him in the neck and blood is pumping out of him at a rate that means he’s not going to make it. Dean stares at the guy, this unassuming looking dishwater blond guy with a few days worth of scruff who is giving Sam a look of outraged incredulity, like he can’t really believe that happened. Dean’s not sure he can either. He’s about to check on Sam, make sure he’s okay, when Sam steps past Dean, raises the gun to the guy’s forehead and pulls the trigger again, point blank.

There’s a huge silence when the reverberation of the gunshot has died down.

Dean is looking at Sam who is just standing there, a wrathful force with this horrifying look in his eyes that contradicts the blankness of his expression.

-Sammy, he says carefully.

Sam turns his attention to Dean, gaze roving over him and then sticking to the blood on Dean’s neck. Sam’s moving towards him, gun put away at the back of his jeans and that’s got to sting, the barrel’s still hot, hands coming up to Dean’s chin, tilting his head to get a look at the cut.

-You okay? Sam asks, sounding like he’s not aware of how frantic his searching hands are.   
-I’m fine, just nicked me. You… Sam, you. Are you okay?   
-Yeah, yeah, Sam says, tone almost distracted, still touching Dean, hands all over his torso now.

Dean reaches up and stops the wandering touch, because it’s too distracting, too worrying. Jesus fucking Christ. This all happened way too fast. Dean’s heart is pounding out of his chest and Sam is definitely too keyed up and too calm at the same time.

-I found his workshop, Sam says.

And that’s all Sam says for a while. He leads Dean to one of the outbuildings and creaks open the door, stepping aside to let Dean walk in in front of him. It’s the stuff of nightmares. It really is. There are clippings and drawings and notebooks and tools and implements. And trophies. There’s no doubt about what’s been going on here. Disappearances, Dean thinks distractedly. That’s all this was. Disappearances. And now he’s standing in this manifestation of some guy’s insanity looking at pictures of charnel houses and drawings of … he doesn’t even want to take all this in.

-As much as I want to salt and burn this guy, Dean says and his own voice sounds wrecked and tight, “we have to get the authorities in here. Too many missing bodies and they need…”

Sam just nods.

Dean goes back out and does what needs to be done. In this case that includes something as awful as retrieving bullets and scuffing up the tire treads they made and pouring ammonia on the few spots of his own blood on the ground and checking that they haven’t left anything else behind that could be connected back to them. Then he calls in a favor with a buddy of Bobby’s who has a connection with the feds. He asks for a couple of hours head start and gives the coordinates. Then they leave.

Sam doesn’t say a word for hours. He’s biting down on all of it, Dean can tell. He’s strung wire tight and there’s nothing in his expression that gives a single thought away and Dean knows that’s bad when it comes to Sam. When he’s locked down like this the blow out later is going to be spectacular. And it might be days before he gets to that point.   
  
Dean feels pretty shaky himself. The thing is, Sam is a decent shot. He is. He’s just not good enough to be able to guarantee the outcome of a gamble like that one. He could just as easily have shot Dean in the head. Dean thinks they both know it. That means that whatever Sam saw on that guy’s face was enough to make him willing to risk it. That is a terrifying thought.

It’s not the only thing about all this that is absolutely terrifying. Sam killed for Dean. Sam, who has admittedly never really done anything as bad as all that, was put in a spot that made that decision necessary and Dean doesn’t like it. He hates that it came to that and that he dragged Sam into it and he’s not saying it’s his fault, but the way all the dominoes are falling it’s starting to look like Dean’s the worst fucking thing to happen to the kid.

The hunt was supposed to be a distraction, just something to kill time until Jim got in touch. It was supposed to take their minds off the guy who had been tracking Sam. It was supposed to be a lot of things. It really wasn’t supposed to be this kind of watershed. There is a before and after for something like this. Sam is not going to be okay. Probably not for a long time.

Dean’s own easy accord with the violence and death he sees took him years to get inured to. You learn to harden yourself against some things and you learn how to work out a logic for the rest of it. Dean knows all about the rationalizations you have to make to square circles like those. It helps that this was clearly a case of transferred self-defense, that Sam was protecting Dean’s life, saving it even. But at three o’clock in the morning that’s not going to be good enough.

-I’m going to ask a really fucking stupid question now, Sam.

Sam looks over at him, still blank.

-Are you okay? Dean says.

Sam gives it some thought.

-You’re right. That is a really stupid fucking question, Sam says and he sounds like he inhaled a desert full of sand.

What Dean wants to say is that he’s sorry. He’s so sorry that happened at all, that Sam was there for it, that he had to do that. He wants to say that he’s going to do the best he can to make sure that never happens again. He wants to say things about how Sam deserves more, how he should just get the fuck on with his life, find somewhere to be that is safer than by Dean’s side. He wants to make some kind of stupid promise that he’ll do whatever it takes to make it better, to make things better for Sam.

-Thank you, is what Dean says.

Sam is giving him one of those deep searching gazes, a considering look in those stormy, beautiful eyes that makes Dean ache for him right now.

-You saved my life, Sam. Thank you.

Because that’s what it all comes down to, really. That’s the only justification that’s going to hold up during the long, cold hours of the night when Sam starts turning this over and over in his mind. He will. Dean knows that he will because he’s been there, he’s had to do that. And the only thing that made the least little bit of difference for him was thinking about the lives he saved, the people that could carry on because of him. Hearing someone say thank you is so rare in his world that he holds on hard to every memory like that he has because it helps a little, makes things just a tiny bit easier. He hopes that will make it easier for Sam too. 


	39. Burden

Dean’s waiting to pay for his coffee and sandwiches when his cell goes off. He has one of those premonitions that you get when you know a call is coming but you had kind of hoped it wouldn’t. He looks at the display and of course it’s dad. They’ve been playing phone tag for weeks but this was too big for the man not to react. Dean thinks about not picking up for about maybe two seconds, but it makes him feel like a coward and that’s just not who he is.

The conversation is exactly what he thought it would be. It starts out with a “I heard from Bobby” and it just goes downhill from there. The thing is, this isn’t the first time one of them has ended up in a situation where things are not what they seem at first glance and it gets more complicated than it should be. John still isn’t pleased. He’s on a tear about what Dean’s responsibilities are when Dean pays and leaves and heads back to the car. Dean opens the passenger side door and dumps everything in Sam’s lap and then he leans with his back against the car with dad’s voice still berating him in that calm, but disappointed tone he uses for conversations like these.

-It made the news, dad says like that’s the worst thing that could possibly have happened.   
-Serial killers will do that, Dean tells him mildly.   
-Dean, you can not afford that kind of exposure.

Dean takes a breath there, because he’s not going to lose his temper. He knows what John’s worried about. He knows it’s not as callous as it sounds. He knows that drawing attention to himself and Sam could only ever be bad. He understands all John’s reasons for saying it, but that doesn’t really help.

-Anonymous tip, three times removed through a known connection who understands what it is we do, Dean says instead and it’s textbook, it’s absolutely solid. It won’t come back to them, Dean is sure of it. He wouldn’t have risked it otherwise.   
-If they start looking …  
-I policed the scene. They won’t find anything.   
-If someone remembers you. Or that kid…  
-We talked to maybe three people. None in the immediate area. We were gone long before the feds arrived.

There’s a moment of silence but Dean can still hear the disapproval. It’s because he said “we”, sure, but more than that it’s because he and Sam called in the official authorities instead of just burying the guy’s corpse in an unmarked grave somewhere.

-You have to be more careful than that, John comes back with.

Dean knows what that means too. The thing is, he understands John’s motivations, he knows this is all coming from a good place. It’s just that … John hasn’t even asked if they’re okay. Or, barring that, if Dean’s okay. He doesn’t really expect John to give a shit about Sam.

-There was a pattern of disappearances. Kind of hard to predict where that will take you, Dean says calmly.

Something nudges his hand and he looks down to see Sam gently bumping the knuckles on his free hand with a coffee cup. He hasn’t closed the door and Sam’s making no pretense of not listening. The look on Sam’s face is inquisitive and Dean takes the cup, gives him a half smile and an eye roll. Sam’s figured out who he’s talking to and he’s giving Dean a wry look in reply. Dean takes a sip of the coffee and mock toasts Sam with the mug while waiting for John to get whatever is eating him off his chest.

-The suspect was found dead at the scene, John says.   
-Yes, sir.   
-You couldn’t just take care of it?   
-No, sir.

And that’s the end of that as far as Dean’s concerned. The victims … well, everyone involved in that mess was going to need to know what happened. This wasn’t like other hunts where they couldn’t talk about what had gone down, this was just ordinary garden variety human evil. As far as Dean’s concerned that needs to be exposed, dragged into the light for everyone to see. There are families out there that need to know what happened to their loved ones.

-Did you put him down, son? John says and there’s something so careful about the wording that Dean actually looks away from Sam who is still keeping eye contact with him.   
-Circumstance outside my control, Dean answers and he knows the way he’s phrasing that is just as careful.

He’s not going to go into details about what happened and he’s sure as hell not going to tell John that is was Sam who pulled the trigger. The way Sam is looking at him makes it pretty clear that he knows where the conversation has gone and he’s giving Dean the kind of expression that makes him seem older, harder. Cynical. Dean’s been seeing a lot of that look on his face over the last couple of days. He’s not sure he likes it.

Sam turns in his seat and puts his feet on the ground, the motion making Dean look back again and watch as Sam takes a sip of from his own mug, still keeping his eyes on Dean. Sam’s hair falls into his eyes and his expression goes suddenly delighted because Dean bought him one of those extra strength red eye bastard coffees that could strip paint. Despite what Dean just thought about how Sam seems a little too hardened lately the gesture makes him look guileless and young. There’s something about the slant of his half lidded eyes and the way his lashes fan down in pleasure that makes Dean want to reach over and run a thumb down Sam’s throat to feel him swallow. Not a good thought to be having while he’s got dad on the line.

-Was he there for it? John asks.   
-My little guttersnipe? Dean shoots back, watching Sam’s eyebrows hike up in amusement. “Yes, he was.”   
-So he’s a witness.   
-Not an issue, sir, don’t worry.

John grumbles back at him about being sure and being safe and keeping his head down and Dean makes all the right noises and just wants this conversation to be over as soon as humanly possible. It’s not like dad to stay on the line for more than a minute or two anyway and this is bordering on insulting as it is. Does dad honestly believe that Dean didn’t think any of this through? That he just blithely handed something over to the goddamned FBI if he didn’t think it was absolutely necessary?

Dean hangs up with the bad aftertaste of dad’s paranoia lingering in his mouth.

-Guttersnipe? Sam says.

Dean looks down at him.

-Would you prefer street urchin?   
-I think the colonel would prefer if you dumped me back at my corner.   
-Oh, no doubt he would.

Sam neatly unwraps one of the sandwiches folding the paper around it in some intricate way that holds it together before handing it to Dean. Dean takes a bite and turns the conversation over in his mind a little. Dad and Bobby are still talking and Bobby obviously got the line from the guy Dean called. That’s all as can be expected considering how that thing hit the news. Not a word about the other stuff, aside from general reservations about Sam.

Sam kicks at him a little. Dean looks down at him again.

-Is it bad? Sam asks.   
-No, not bad. Not sure, though, what that was about.   
-Checking up on you?   
-Yeah, that, but he was fishing. Just a little. Probably wanted the whole sordid story. Not like I’d tell that anyway.

Sam rights himself and stands up, leaning next to Dean, coffee cup clasped lovingly and shoulder pressing into Dean’s.

-You could have told him, Sam says.   
-Why should I? We draw the line at different things. It’s always been that way.   
-You know what I mean.   
-Yeah, I do.

Dean’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop with Sam. He’s been kind of quiet, kind of closed off since it happened. But other than that he seems weirdly okay. Not like after that thing with the sisters. Nightmares seem no better, but no worse either. Sam has drawn himself up and locked himself down, seems pensive and sometimes he loses himself in his head for a while, but that’s really nothing new. Dean figures he’ll take a stab at this now since they’re talking about it anyway.

-You seem to be doing pretty okay, Dean says and he angles the question a little, not invasive, just honestly curious.   
-Yeah. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I keep thinking I should be freaking out more.   
-You’re worried about not freaking out enough? Dean says like that’s just stupid.

It isn’t, though. He gets it. He really does. Sam just got a pretty big taste of what he’s capable of and it’s probably a little more than he ever thought it would be. It can be chilling to find out something like that about yourself.

-This is going to sound so wrong, Sam says with a self-deprecating grimace.   
-I like it already, Dean tells him and takes another bite just to make sure he doesn’t shoot his mouth off worse.  
-Every other time I’ve wanted someone dead it’s been because I hated them. This guy just. He was just sick. And he had you, man. Knife to your throat and I looked in his eyes and I could see it. I could see how much he was enjoying it, thinking about what he would do to you. I’m not saying that makes it right. It just…  
-Makes it less wrong? Dean fills in for him.   
-Something like that, I guess. Scary as hell, though, Sam says and Dean thinks that’s about what he was thinking too.

He pushes his own shoulder more solidly into Sam’s.

-Well, I for one am grateful not to be ventilated, so. Feel free to be freaked out. It kind of comes with the territory.   
-I’ll keep that in mind.

They finish their sandwiches and coffee and then Sam gathers up the trash and chucks it before they get back in the car. Sam’s got the window on his side rolled down just a tiny little crack and the air courses around them, making Sam’s hair do crazy things and Dean thinks about how awfully not funny it is that he finds it funny that John got this one so wrong. If Sam hadn’t been there Dean would have been meat in a cooler by now. And dad would probably never even have found him. Unless he went bad and needed to be salted and burned at some point. Sobering thought. And just a little bit funny in all the wrong ways.

-You talk like you’ve got experience, Sam says suddenly.

Dean hums in reply and hopes that Sam will leave it at that. Not that he thinks Sam will, because that’s not really how the kid’s mind works. And, yeah, there he goes, rolling the window back up so he can hear Dean better.

-How often does that happen? Sam asks.   
-Which part?   
-The part where it’s not a monster.   
-Oh, it’s a monster. That’s a thing my dad and me disagree about, by the way.  
-Okay, Sam says and takes a moment to work out how to change the direction of his questioning. “You’ve had that happen before.”   
-Yeah. It’s the pattern recognition thing. We see things, hunters I mean, same way some specialized branches of law enforcement do. Mostly what we see is just the weird stuff, you know, ‘cause that’s what we look for. This one could have gone either way. There was an abandoned town, that usually means something. And it was like random predation, you know what I mean? Killer didn’t have a type. Other than just … available.   
-And you’ve dealt with something like that before? Sam asks.

Dean takes a breath. Blows it out slowly. He wishes it was that simple. He wishes the bodies he has to his name were anything as straightforward as this. They’re not. It’s only happened twice, but Dean still feels sick about one of those and the other has never stopped freaking him the fuck out at random intervals. He lives with it, but it’s not easy.

-Okay, look, here’s the thing. The way I’ve been trained means that I can do some things that … well, not everyone can. You hunt enough, you see enough bad shit, you put down enough dangerous things and it just … it becomes something you can do.

Dean doesn’t want to think about that goddamned farmhouse where he shot a man who was beating his wife to death. He doesn’t want to think about how instinctive it was to raise the gun that was already in his hand and just squeeze the trigger. He doesn’t want to think about how she crouched over his corpse and wailed and cried and cursed Dean’s name with blood running down her face from the scalp wound the asshole had given her when he tried to beat her to a pulp with a pipe wrench. Still makes him nauseous.

And Sam is watching him now, eyes bright and intent.

-How do you deal with it? Sam asks.   
-Honestly? Dean says, because that’s kind of personal. And he’s lied enough today.   
-Yeah.   
-Couldn’t tell you. Sometimes I don’t know if I want to break out the vodka or go get laid or get in a fight or just …   
-Talk to a friend?   
-You’re not the only one who doesn’t have a lot of those, kid.

Sam gives him another of those long searching looks and then something shifts in his expression and it’s so subtle it’s blink and you’ll miss it.

-Are you saying your emotional support network isn’t as extensive as you would like for it to be? Sam asks and his tone is such a perfect mimicry of some shitty half-assed counselor Dean doesn’t even bother biting back a grin.   
-Oh, fuck you.   
-No, really, it’s important that you find healthy modes of expression.   
-That the kind of shit they fed you?   
-Oh, yeah, Sam says dropping the fake solicitous tone. “Especially after that one time when I beat up a kid at school.”   
-I didn’t think you did that kind of thing, mister perfect record.   
-Oh, trust me, he had it coming.

Dean thinks about what’s really going on here, where this whole conversation has been going.

-That is actually one of the things that help. Sometimes people really do have it coming. And there are those that can carry that kind of burden.   
-Still a burden, though.   
-Ain’t that the truth. But I’m alive right now because of you, Sammy.

Sam’s eyes do something interesting when Dean says that. They go deep and dark and there’s that ancient look again, that old, old thing that just lives in him like it has a home there.  
  
-You saved my life, I saved yours, Sam says and his tone is deceptively mild. “We’re even.”

But is doesn’t sound like they’re even to Dean. It sounds like they’re only getting started.

 


	40. Three Sixteen

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, not sure what roused him. He looks over at the complimentary alarm clock glowing red at him and it mocks him. Three sixteen, it proclaims gleefully. It doesn’t really take much more than that for him to know what woke him. Something’s up with Sam.

Looking over at the other bed, Dean finds it empty. That’s enough to clear the last of the wisps of sleepiness and get his feet on the floor. It’s been raining all day, the kind of thin drizzle that makes the air cold and clammy and the room is chilly, so that makes for a pretty dismal wake-up.

Sam’s not in his bed. He’s not at the table. He’s not in the bathroom. Dean gets up and walks to the window. Can’t see a damned thing except for sodium lights, the odd headlight beam from the nearby road and the muted glow of the motel sign. Long shadows everywhere. More rain. All Sam’s stuff is still here, so he can’t have gone far. Dean feels kind of ridiculous as he checks under the bed. He feels even more like an idiot when he opens the closet door, just making sure.

Sam is huddled in a defensive ball. He’s got his arms wound around his legs and his head bent down and he looks so fucking small folded up like that. Dean doesn’t know what the hell this is, but he knows it isn’t anything good. Looks like the kid’s asleep. Dean crouches down and just studies him for a minute. This is a dilemma. No, really. How the fuck does he deal with this? He needs to wake Sam up, because this is not … well, it’s not good. He feels the chill of the room already and Sam is in just his sweats and a t-shirt and he’s sleeping balled up in the goddamned closet, what the hell?

Dean needs to get the kid back in bed, warm him up, make sure he’s all right. Maybe ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but without the edge of frustration he’s got going in his mind right now.

Reaching out is … it’s another tricky thing. Startling Sam is never smart.

-Sam. Hey, Sammy, kid, come on, wake up, Dean says and doesn’t touch, even if it goes against his first impulse.

Sam doesn’t exactly flinch, but his whole body tightens up enough that Dean knows Sam’s back with him. Sam’s head tilts to the side a little and his eyes come open. Dean’s never really sure what to expect when shit like this happens, but he keeps his hands to himself and makes sure his own body language is as open and non-threatening as he can make it under the circumstance. When Sam locks his gaze on Dean all Dean can read there is the muddle of sleep.

-What are you doing, kid? Waiting for Mister Tumnus? Dean asks and his voice comes out soft and low, coaxing, like Sam’s some kind of feral animal.

Not too far from the truth, all things considered. At least not right now. Sam is looking at him and that’s something. His eyes are surprisingly calm, so this isn’t some kind of freak out. At least not like anything Dean’s seen from him before. Sam doesn’t seem up to talking, though. Dean reaches out slowly, carefully, and puts a hand on the bony apex of Sam’s knee. Sam lets him, still looking at him with that deeply aware gaze that’s somehow simultaneously oddly void of anything like conscious thought.

He might be a little out of it right now, but he lets Dean charm him out of his little refuge and get him to his feet. Christ, the kid is cold to the touch. He leads Sam back to bed like a sleepwalker and Sam is surprisingly compliant, following and scooting and settling back into bed. Dean thinks he might not be all the way with it, but that is mostly just wishful thinking. It’s hard to imagine the kid as someone who doesn’t fire on all cylinders the second his eyes come open.

When Dean has pulled the covers back over Sam he straightens up, intending to get himself back into bed and maybe salvage enough of the night to get a few more hours of sleep in. Sam’s hand comes up, fingers clamping down hard on Dean’s wrist. Dean just stands there, slightly bent over, awkwardly leaning so he doesn’t lose his balance and thinks “what now?” when he feels the slightest tug on his arm, a weak almost imperceptible thing. And Dean knows about this kind of night, okay? He knows about the strange frame of mind that makes you do weird shit, that’s why he checked under the bed. He thinks he might have an inkling of what this is. He sits down on the side of the bed, Sam’s fingers braceletting his wrist. When the tug comes again, he lies down on top of the covers.

The bed isn’t that big, but Sam is somehow smaller right now, diminished. He’s turned his back to Dean and Dean’s laid out flat. Sam’s pressed into his side and Dean figures that’s about as much as the kid can handle, about as much as he can ask for. He lays there, crosses his feet at the ankle and lets the curve of Sam’s spine warm his side. Dean’s nights have definitely taken a turn for the unpredictable with Sam. It’s nothing new, but, hey, it keeps him on his toes. He figures he’ll go back to his own bed once Sam’s gone back to sleep. He doesn’t really count on falling asleep himself within seconds, because that doesn’t seem feasible. He does, though. Goes out like a light.

When he shifts into awareness next Sam has turned over and stolen into Dean’s personal space. He’s got his head on Dean’s shoulder which means Dean’s arm has gone around his back, somehow, without conscious decision on Dean’s part. His hand is on Sam’s hip and his arm should be asleep, but it isn’t. He can feel the worn soft material of the sweats under his fingertips. His thumb has stolen in under the hem of Sam’s t-shirt to rest against skin.

There’s a bird bone quality to how Sam’s put together that has Dean so fascinated he gets annoyed with himself. It’s there in his wrists and his long fingers. His neck. His clavicles. Sam’s still skinny, but it’s a different kind of skinny, now. More like that’s the way he’s built, and there’s some muscle around it, some strength to it that doesn’t look like it’s born of desperation. It makes Dean want to touch. To be perfectly honest that started the night they met, Dean’s fingers slow over one of the scars on Sam’s back. He’d been so tense then, coiled so tightly. This is just more of the same, Dean wanting to keep Sam warm and reasonably comfortable and … yeah, he wants to touch, because that’s a very different language from the one they speak most of the time.

Sam’s face is turned down, into Dean’s neck. That feels really familiar. So does the fact that Sam’s breath is skating over Dean’s throat, down his chest. Sam’s still curled, arms folded in between their bodies, but his leg has inched over Dean’s thigh and he’s pressing in closer. Dean knows he’s awake. He’s not sure what gives it away. This is Sam seeking comfort, maybe, seeking closeness and Jesus, that’s a minefield and a half. Dean’s not sure where he can touch, if he can. With anyone else he would run his hand over their back, slow sweeping reassuring strokes, but with Sam he really doesn’t know if that’s a good idea.

Part of the problem of touching Sam is actually touching Sam. Dean has no fucking idea what his triggers are, but he figures there are probably a lot of them. That doesn’t mean Sam isn’t … can’t. Sam needs this, the closeness, Dean can tell. It’s not surprising. It’s not even really unexpected at this point. Dean figures he’s just going to have to be mindful.

Sam’s making a slow advance, his knee coming to rest between Dean’s spread legs and that suddenly changes this from just innocently sleepy comfort to something else entirely. There’s a couple of layers of clothes between them, along with the covers and only a few tentative skin-to-skin points of contact, Sam’s face against Dean’s neck, Dean’s thumb resting on the skin just above Sam’s hip. The contact is still weighted, poignant. Dean gets that feeling again that this is just so much more than he’s used to. Hell, this, the fact that Sam’s curling one arm down into himself and inching the other over Dean’s chest is turning him on in ways he can’t really even classify. Sam takes a handful of Dean’s t-shirt in a steady grip and settles himself more surely against Dean.

This is not about innocent reassurance anymore. Sam’s weight feels good. The warm breath skating along Dean’s skin feels good. The slow gritty drag of Sam shifting his hips forward and down feels fucking amazing. Dean lets the hand he has on Sam’s hip splay wide, inch up enough to rest at the small of his back. He’s careful to keep the touch warm and light, pressing a little, but not restraining. Sam makes a noise that sounds like nothing Dean’s ever heard from him before. It’s a low, rough noise of appreciation that makes Dean breathe out hard in response and rock his own hips a little as if to say “yeah, come one, move”.

Dean doesn’t even mind the fact that there are clothes and covers between them. Sam can do whatever he wants. If this is all he can handle then that’s fine with Dean, because, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like Sam’s spine is made of something liquid and the way he tilts his whole body into Dean’s, covering him more now, finding a grove to fit himself into, it’s fine. It’s fine, it’s better than fine. It should seem innocent, it should feel juvenile, like teenagers rubbing up against each other because they don’t know what else to do, but that’s not what this feels like at all.

Sam has his face pushed into Dean’s neck and his knee between Dean’s legs and he’s more or less on top of Dean, the fist in Dean’s t-shirt a solid press where Sam steadies himself, puts a point of pressure low on Dean’s ribcage and you’d think Dean was as hard up for it as he had been at fifteen the way he responds to all this. When Sam moves it feels like Sam is fucking him through three layers and that’s ridiculous, it’s completely absurd. It has Dean gasping already, has him pushing back against Sam, letting something like a rhythm build and he’s grateful for the hand he has up Sam’s shirt, because he can feel the sweat that breaks out in the small of his back.

Sam’s mouth opens on Dean’s throat. His tongue comes out, slow licks like a warm wet pulsation over Dean’s heartbeat there. Dean gets that kissing is … a thing. Another of Sam’s things. Oh, fuck, he can’t focus, but somehow he understands that Sam’s mouth on his skin at all is more than what Sam’s given others. And that’s fine. If Sam wants to put his mouth on Dean’s neck that’s fine. He can do that anytime he wants, Jesus. Dean runs his free hand up Sam’s neck and into his hair, against the grain, to cup the back of his head, show him that it’s fine.

Sam goes completely still and Dean has just enough time to think “damn it, got that one wrong” before Sam makes another of those low-rough deep noises that makes Dean think of the rumbling of an engine starting up. Dean’s got enough awareness that he knows that holding Sam down, grabbing at him, pushing too hard, pulling his hair, all those things are going to be a bad idea, so he makes his touches the opposite of that. He cups Sam’s head gently but firmly, he lets his fingers rest lightly on his back, more just to feel him move than to direct the motion. He pushes his hips into Sam’s, keeps his legs open and welcoming. He keeps his back to the goddamned mattress and more or less just lets Sam have him any way he wants him. It’s not like that’s a hardship.

When Sam unfreezes and starts moving again there’s more intent, more weight behind it. And Sam’s noises of approval are gorgeous little things. The way he has them lined up is oddly perfect for something so constricted and clothed. There’s warm breath on Dean’s throat and Dean kind of expects a hickey, expects suction, but all he gets is Sam’s kind mouth, Sam’s tongue, Sam’s low vocalizations and the feeling of heat that floods his own stomach. It all builds into a warm rush of arousal that has Dean turning his head into Sam’s, pressing his mouth to Sam’s hair and then the part of his brow that he can reach and because Sam isn’t kissing, neither is Dean. It’s the kind of play-along that Dean’s always been good at. There’s a reason he’s had very few hookups be unhappy with him in the morning. And this matters more. This isn’t Dean’s audition. He thinks he’s done that part already. Now he’s just got to deliver. And again, not like that’s a hardship.

Dean drags his lips slowly against Sam’s skin, gets a taste of him that way, maps him out a little with his mouth. He lets the hand he has on Sam’s skin skim along the muscle of his lower back, gentle encouragement and more for the feel of him than anything else. Moves with Sam. Moves and feels the heat build between them, sweat breaking out over his own skin. It feels like a reward when he gets more of those noises out of Sam, half growl, some of that roughness from sleep still there and then the other ones, the ones that make something zip magnesium flare bright down Dean’s own spine. They’re higher, artless, somehow, those noises, like it feels so good Sam just can’t help but make them. And that? That, right there? That’s beautiful, that’s what that is, the way Sam sounds in the middle of the night, moving against Dean and getting a little helpless with it, struggling now.

Dean’s got his hands on something so incredible. He’s got something that no one else has. He’s hungry to kiss Sam, sure, but this is good. It’s so good that he knows it won’t last long this time either. And Sam sounds so desperate. He’s working hard, all his movements urgent now, and Dean might be a little bit older, probably has a little more experience, but it’s been a while for him, both since he’s had anything like this and since he’s had a chance at Sam like this and it’s not going to take much to get him there either.

Dean wants to say some really stupid things right now. Usually he’d give compliments, say something nicely dirty, figure something out that he thinks would be right for whoever he was with, but not with Sam. With Sam he wants to say how fucking gorgeous those noises Sam makes are. He wants to tell Sam all the things he can offer, wants to say that it’s okay, that Sam can have them. All of it. Anything.

There’s no pretense in that, it’s all a little too honest. And it’s not just because they’re heading for a pretty spectacular supernova here, it’s because it’s Sam. That part’s not about sex at all. That part is what makes Dean want to tell Sam how good he is, how good he’s making Dean feel right now, but words are tricky too. Tricky in other ways than the kind of language they’re speaking in exhales and sweat and motion. He doesn’t want to break this before he’s even gotten the chance to start it.

-Tell me what you want. Tell me how to touch you, Dean says instead, so hushed and wrecked it’s hardly even there. He means it though.

Sam moans against him and there’s definitely words against his skin after that, the fist Sam has locked in his shirt pressing just that little bit harder.

-Just stay for me, stay, Sam mumbles.   
-Not going anywhere, Dean tells him.

That must be right, because that makes Sam shudder in the best possible way.

Part of Dean wants to get rid of the blankets and clothes and get them down to skin, have Sam move against him like that, but that’s not what Sam asked for. Sam asked him to stay and that’s okay, it’s good. Dean can stay. He has no idea what brought this on tonight, but they’re here now and they’re moving together and he’s got Sam’s mouth on his skin and the hard brittle bone of Sam’s skull in his palm and the thoughts that swirl inside it are all about this now, getting to the finishing line. For all of how open Dean’s being, how he’s not holding on, Dean’s whole body is in this and he feels like he’s enveloping Sam, like he’s ivy-wound around him.

Sam is breathing out a rising cadence of those noises against Dean skin and moving on him like he’s made for Dean and that’s what makes Dean come, the way those noises crescendo as Sam pushes harder against him and locks there, shuddering and so perfectly beautifully desperate for it. When the tension goes out of Sam he just melts against Dean, one long sinuous line of heat.

And, okay, yeah, now Dean feel a little like a kid, coming hard from Sam rubbing off against his hip, but the contentment he gets from having Sam rest easy more or less on top of him more than makes up for that. Sam rubs his face against Dean’s shoulder, forehead damp with sweat and his lungs expand under Dean’s palm in a deep sigh, Sam’s fist uncurling, fingers flattening out over his ribs.

Dean’s hands have a mind of their own like this, he knows that from experience. He’s scratching a little through Sam’s hair, rubbing circles over Sam’s back, gentling touches to draw out the pleasure, bring him down easy. And Sam is pressing into it, letting Dean, drowsy and sated and just right.

Sleep takes them both back under for a while. Dean thinks they should clean up a little, but instead he pulls the covers back over Sam and they settle like that, Sam laying over him while Dean still lets his hands work on keeping him at home there. He can remember thinking vaguely that Sam is more work than anyone Dean’s ever been with, but he’s worth it. Sam is worth every fucking measure of it.


	41. Gunhand

Dean’s first thought when he wakes up is “why?”. There’s a “no” in there too, somewhere, but it’s so far muted that he won’t even let himself think it. It’s still early and still gray and kind of chilly and Sam’s not there. His second thought is kind of a logical follow up to the first, which is “I’m going to put a fucking bell in that kid, swear to god”. It’s unnerving that he didn’t wake up when Sam got up, because with most of the pretty Dean’s shared his bed with, he’s woken up if they so much as breathed funny. He’s gotten used to Sam, is the thing. Or, well, maybe not gotten used to, but he’s acclimatized himself to the way it feels to have Sam moving around the room.

Dean rubs a hand over his face, getting the grit out of his eyes and sighs more heavily than he thinks the early hour really merits, because the thing that’s making him feel like he needs extra oxygen is the fact that the damned kid won’t stay put and that he can’t seem to keep track of him. When he looks over to see what time it is there’s a to-go cup of coffee steaming gently on the nightstand. That must be what woke him.

There’s no real sense of panic and that’s probably an indication of how his semi-conscious brain put all the clues together. Chill and Sam padding around and the scent of coffee and the air current of someone opening a door and closing it in a way that didn’t register as a threat… all those things. The kinds of things, really, that have had him pointing guns at people in the past. Dean’s been embarrassed by that reaction and he’s scared the shit of out of the occasional civilian with his reflexes. Kind of hard to explain why your one night stand feels the need to put a gun in your face when you come out of the bathroom. It’s been a while since he’s done anything like that, though, because he learned how to sleep light on the nights when he has company.

Dean gets up, pulls on his jeans and boots and takes a sip of the coffee that’s still hot enough that the kid’s got to be nearby. Not in the room, though. Not in the bathroom. He doesn’t bother checking the closet. He’s got the feeling that was a middle-of-the-night kind of thing.

When Dean opens the door, Sam is sitting just to the right under the awning where the rain can’t reach him, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up. He’s got a cup of his own cradled close to his chest and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and Dean just stares at him for about five seconds before walking out and sliding down next to him, close enough that their shoulders bump when he’s settled on his ass. Sam gives him a quick sideways glance and that’s all the greeting Dean gets. Dean looks him over though, slow and searching, head to boot and back again, locking on the trail of smoke that twists up through his hair.

-Smoking’s bad for you, is the first thing he says.

Sam just smirks, still looking out over the parking lot. Makes Dean wonder who he woke up to this morning. The rain is down to a fine mist now, the kind that permeates everything and makes you feel damp and uncomfortable. Dean kind of wants to reach over and pluck the cigarette out of the kid’s mouth and toss it into the gravel. He doesn’t, though. He takes another sip of his coffee. Sam does the same and then chases that with a long, deep drag from the cigarette. Not a beginner, obviously.

-We need to have a conversation, Dean says calmly and Sam hums in reply, a kind of rumbly noise that makes Dean want to put a hand to Sam’s chest to feel it.

They drink their coffee in peaceable silence for a while, though, because it’s still early and there’s no real hurry. Dean thinks it probably would be better if Sam’s the one to start it, but it doesn’t seem like that’s going to happen.

-You alright? Dean asks when Sam’s done smoking and his coffee cup is almost empty.   
-I don’t know, Sam says. “Look, last night, I wasn’t. I didn’t mean to…”   
-I don’t claim to have the slightest idea what goes on in your head most of the time. You’re a little weird, Dean tells him point blank. “But if you want to tell me what that was about, that would probably be good.”

The look Sam sends him is kind of startled. His eyes are a muted shifting blue today, Dean notes. Probably reflecting the weather. Christ, he’s gone for this kid. He so gone, it’s a little uncomfortable. There’s something about the way Sam is looking at him, though, that isn’t quite right. Dean takes a moment to try and work it out and Sam seems to be trying to sense his way through whatever stuff is lying between them right now. It’s oddly intense and Dean doesn’t know what to make of it. It doesn’t look like Sam does either, so Dean decides to help him along.

-I could make so many bad closet jokes right now, Dean tells him. “But I’m not going to. Or, well, I might, but not right now. What was that, Sammy?”

Sam’s face does this interesting thing where it clouds and clears and then clouds again and Dean thinks he won’t ever stop being completely fascinated by how much there is to read in the things Sam won’t ever say. Sam lets the eye contact drop, looks out over the parking lot again like he’s staring out over the ocean.

-Sometimes when it got too loud, places I was staying, I’d do that. Sometimes the noise is all in my head. I just. Last night. Sorry about that.   
-You don’t got to be sorry. It’s okay. Freaked me out a little when you weren’t there when I woke up, Dean tells him, because honesty is… well, not the best policy. Probably not even a good policy, and certainly not a smart one, but it’s morning and Sam is skittish. Dean kind of thinks the only reason Sam hasn’t gone anywhere is because of the rain.

A few doors down a couple is dragging their suitcases over to their car and Sam gives them a quick, evaluating kind of glance, same as Dean, and then dismisses them, same as Dean.

-You know how kids go through that phase in their childhood where they think there’s a monster in the closet, or under the bed, or something? Dean asks, waiting for Sam’s nod before he continues. “Yeah, well. Most parents probably tell their kid that it’s all in their head and not to worry. My dad handed me a .45. And there _was_ something under my bed. I slept on the floor for weeks after. Still do sometimes.”

Sam’s attention is back on him now and Dean gives him a small, crooked smile. They’re fucked up, the pair of them. They are such a glorious fucked up mess that he has no idea how he ever got by without this kid right at his shoulder. He thinks that of all the people he’s ever met, hunters and civilians and innocents alike, he’s never met anyone who has had a chance at understanding him like Sam.

-There was a monster under your bed? Sam asks and the wry tilt to his eyebrow is a glorious thing to see.   
-You hear voices in your head, Dean counters.   
-Just the one, Sam says so perfectly deadpan and nonchalant that Dean can’t help but grin at him.   
-It was a small monster, Dean concedes with a shrug.   
-Well, that’s alright then.

They sit there for a little while longer, but Dean’s starting to get too cold and he wants a shower. Some breakfast. Hit the road a little early, maybe. Ride around some before they have to pick someplace else to bunk down for the night.

-Are you just going to let me get away with it? Sam asks quietly after a pretty long silence.   
-Get away with what? Dean asks.

Sam turns and looks at him, studying him for a drawn out moment. Dean figures he gets whatever answer he was looking for off Dean’s face, because he doesn’t say anything else, just gives Dean an odd little lopsided grin and starts getting to his feet.

It’s hours later, after food and driving around and taking a check-in call from his dad and wondering if it’s ever going to stop raining, if they can maybe outrace the storm that’s dogging them, that Dean realizes they were probably having two entirely different conversations that morning. He’s still not sure what he woke up to, either. He works at trying to figure out the why and what and where of Sam more often than he himself would have thought he’d have the patience for.

Something must have made Sam’s head so noisy he thought going to sleep in the closet was a good idea. The problem with that is there’s a pretty wide range of stuff to chose from. He could just ask. Maybe. Looking at Sam who’s reading in the passenger seat with his hair falling into his eyes and one sock-clad foot up on the dash, he’s not sure what kind of answer he’d get, though. And he’s not sure if whatever is going on is going to be something Sam wants to talk about.

Things have shifted between them. It’s a slow process, but it’s got that kind of inevitable momentum that Dean thinks makes it just one of those things, like the storm that’s riding with them. It’s not something he can get out of the way of and it has its own power. It’s a little beguiling and a little dangerous, but that seems to be the way things are with them. Sam shifts next to him, puts the book down on his lap and leans his head back against the backrest. He didn’t sleep much last night, Dean’s sure of that.

-You know, everyone’s got an agenda, Sam tells him suddenly in his soft mild tone.   
-Yeah? Dean asks, not sure where this is going.   
-Working the angles, Sam says, and he does sound tired.   
-Pretty much how life works, isn’t it? Dean says, because he will admit he’s that kind of cynic.   
-I don’t know. I mean, everyone I’ve ever met has always wanted something.   
-Human interaction at its finest, Dean tells him with a small smile.

The sky is a clamoring, cloud ridden deep gray turmoil, blocking out the sun and making things seem oddly dire. The road is clear, though. Not much traffic and not much going on in general. Dean likes driving, he always has. It’s even better now with company.

-I had a friend called Cara, she had this theory. It’s like economics, right? A whole system of barter and assets and deficits. Sometimes you’re just worth what people can get from you. You have to trade on that, make smart choices with it.   
-That’s pretty ugly.   
-I’d say realistic.   
-Same thing, sometimes.

Sam looks over at him, eyes low lidded and watchful. Dean catches the small crook of his mouth that’s almost a smile. It’s not a good smile, though, it’s one of those twisted little things that show more world weariness than Dean likes to see on anyone, much less someone who isn’t old enough to drink yet. Experience is like dog years, though, Dean figures. Ages you.

-So the question is, Dean, what do you want from me?

Dean actually flinches a little at that. Sam’s voice is still soft and drained and so, so sure that he’s right about this that Dean would be insulted if he hadn’t gotten that lead in.

-This again, really? Dean shoots back.   
-Yeah, I think so, because. Look. I see what you get like when your dad calls, okay?   
-What do you mean?   
-You don’t even know, do you? How your spine goes rigid and you start in with the “yes-sir, no-sir” bullshit. You don’t see it, but he works a command structure with you that he probably laid down when you were still in diapers.   
-That’s just how the old man does things, Dean tries to explain like he’s done so many times.   
-He has a use for you, Dean.

Dean feels his stomach go icy and slick with bile. He knows it’s true. He pretty much knows what it looks like from the outside, but he had no idea it was that obvious. It’s not like he can hide it from Sam, they’re in each others company far too much for that and it’s not like he’s tried to conceal the tension between him and dad. He’s made a point of telling Sam about it, the reasons for it, the politics behind it.

-I’m not going to say that isn’t true. In a lot of ways that’s what I’m here for. Back up. Another gun.   
-And you’re okay with that? Being your father’s gun?   
-Look, Sam, there’s a reason why we don’t ride together. But at the end of the day, he’s family. It’s all I’ve got.   
-Except for how that isn’t true. You’ve got friends. You’ve got… You’ve got more than that.

Dean knows this conversation is definitely not about what it looks like it’s about. He’s trying to figure out what the hell it is about. When they get into things like this it always feels like Sam is five steps ahead and eight steps to the left of where Dean would have put him.

-What’s going on? Dean asks, blunt now, because he can’t keep up with Sam and he knows it.   
-You know I have dreams. You know I sometimes see things.   
-Yeah?  
-And I do research. I find things out.   
-Yeah.   
-I think something is coming. I think it’s kind of inevitable at this point. I know you’re in it and I think your dad is too.

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, because he might not be a genius and he might not have the shining, but he’s not an idiot. He knows there’s something building around them with the kind of tumbling kinetic energy of an avalanche.

-So we deal with it when we get there, Dean says.   
-I can’t really go back, Sam tells him.   
-Go back where?   
-I mean I can’t go back to the way it was before. If I find out things that you don’t want to hear…  
-Ah. That’s not the way it works.   
-You keep saying that. But you can’t know.   
-Sam. Sammy. Listen to me for a minute. I’m not saying that there aren’t things about all this that don’t freak me out. There are. That doesn’t mean I won’t be there. Whether I want to hear something or not is really irrelevant. I don’t do well with being lied to, so it’s better to get the truth. Even if it’s something I won’t like.   
  
There’s a long moment of silence after that and Dean can feel the pressure of Sam’s gaze on him, that steady, studying look that he’s so good at. Sam is definitely worried about something and it’s not something he’s ready to talk about. Probably the reason he ended up in the closet, hiding like a wounded cat.

They’re closer now. They keep getting closer. Dean can’t really see that changing anytime soon. Maybe in some part of his mind he understands why John and Bobby got so jumpy about Sam. Or, more correctly, the way he’s been with Sam since all this started. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s the way things are now.

Shit, Dean woke up this morning thinking Sam would be freaking out over the sex, but now he thinks he’s got it all turned around. Sam was already freaked out when Dean tried to put him back to bed last night. That was probably the catalyst for the whole thing. So Dean does something he thinks has about fifty-fifty chance of getting him a knife to the groin again. He reaches out and just slides his fingers in between the leather of the seat and Sam’s neck and lets them rest heavy there. He can feel Sam tense up minutely before going lax again.

-You need to get some sleep, Dean tells him.   
-Still trying to be my big brother? Sam asks and there’s a little sliver of something hot curling around the words.   
-Looking out for you.   
-You always do, Sam says and it’s good, it’s better than anything Dean’s heard in a long time, the meaning under the words heavy and rich and so welcome.

It doesn’t really solve anything, but it makes it a little easier to breathe. They’re okay. They’re going to be okay. 


	42. Intentions

Once when Dean was still just a kid he had sat down with his dad and had a long talk about family. Well, more to the point, he’d been sat down and had it explained to him what it meant to be a family like the one they are. He hadn’t understood a lot of it back then, because he’d been too young. The thing is, there’s just him and dad. He didn’t have any uncles or aunts or cousins or grandparents or anything. He’d asked about it at the time because of some school project, something about knowing your history. He remembers that part. He had been supposed to interview his oldest living relative. Slim pickings.

Dad was never really good with talking about all that. He got angry, closed off. Dean’s innocent insistence that there had to be someone hadn’t gone over real well. In the end dad had explained to him that it was better if Dean lied. Pretty much ordered him to, actually. Probably nervous about what kind of impression they’d give otherwise. So Dean had made uncles of some of the closer hunter connections, like Bobby. He had made up cousins. He had spread them out all over the country, making it a game to find towns with names that sounded like the names of the towns where they’d lived. When he showed the whole thing to his father, John had given it a cautious once-over and okayed it. There was a lesson there, something about never revealing too much of who you really are, never telling the truth.

It’s not so strange at all that Dean has contacts, he has resources, but he has very few real friends. He was pretty much brought up like a black ops operative. It’s not nearly as cool as it seems in the movies.

John didn’t want to talk about family. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened with mom. He didn’t want to tell Dean. The problem with that is that Dean’s whole existence is shaped by that. His whole life, the things that are supposed to drive him, they’re all hidden in that. And Dean won’t deny that he grew resentful of it as he got older.

It’s not the only reason they don’t travel together anymore, but it’s a part of it. Dad refuses to understand why Dean doesn’t see things the way he does, why he won’t barrel after the thing that John’s hunting with blinkers on. He doesn’t want to hear Dean’s side of it. The friction got to be too much for both of them. It’s not smart to have two well-armed combat trained guys at each others’ throats trying to work together when they don’t see common ground on even the simplest things. Add to that the whole thing where Sam isn’t wrong about the fact that John does expect obedience and you’ve got a recipe for trouble of the kind that ends bloody.

Dean has a temper. He won’t deny it. It was a lot worse when he was younger. At fifteen Dean took chunks out of dad whenever he could and then just stood back and watched as he bled. Dad has a temper too, and he used to drink a lot more heavily than he does now. That ended when Dean pointed out that he was useless when he got too shaky to hold a fucking shotgun if he didn’t have at least a couple of beers in him. One of the few times John had actually listened to Dean. Good thing too, he almost got them both killed on a pretty mundane hunt because he’d had the shakes.

The point is, Dean’s mostly thought of family as an abstract notion. He has his dad, in some ways. At least he knows him. Sort of. But dad’s made himself more of a drill sergeant than a father and that’s not really what Dean thinks that relationship should be. Not that he’d know.

There’s still a bigger reason they don’t hunt together anymore. Dean doesn’t like thinking about that.

There’s a thin line you have to walk not to lose John completely and Dean’s been pretty good at navigating how to go about that. He’s not seeing much payoff for it at the moment, but then that’s just the way things are. The hunts John sends him, the coordinates and the specific jobs have all been the kinds of things geared towards Dean’s talents. He’s got some skills and some assets that John lacks. He’s better with some things and dad’s been careful about what he sends Dean after. What John still won’t realize, or maybe acknowledge, is that Dean’s gotten really good at doing the job without him. He honestly doesn’t have any idea what John thinks he does with his time when he doesn’t get those referrals. He imagines John likes to think he sits around waiting. Secrets and lies. They’ve never been good at the whole disclosure business.

Now there’s Sam. And that’s throwing all the patterns and carefully created lines and demarcations out of whack. Dad likes to think he has more control than he actually does and Dean’s just been letting him think that. It sounds like kind of an asshole move, right? But that’s what you get when you raise a hunter and try to treat him like a soldier. Dean should probably say that dad’s been treating him like a child. Like his child. But that’s not the way it is. Not even when he tries to doll it up. Sam’s right about the way John talks to him. Dean doesn’t like how perceptive the kid is sometimes, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

The other side of that is Dean being less accommodating than he could be. It’s easier to do the “yes-sir, no-sir” bullshit than to try having another conversation. Dean can glide on that. He can keep up with the check-in calls and give dad just enough to keep him off their backs. He knows there are things burning holes under the words every time they talk, John waiting for him to say that he’s changed his mind, he agrees now, he’s seen the light. Instead Dean pushes back, says nothing, is agreeable and doesn’t say anything about where he and Sam are or what they’re doing. It doesn’t look like it, but it’s a dangerous game to play.

Another good thing about the way Dean’s been operating over the last couple of years is that he’s the one who keeps in contact with people. He’s the one who calls up Bobby or Cal or Pastor Murphy. He’s the one who takes the short daytrips and the simple jobs. Dad’s never been good at that, he’s always been too brusque and too good at pissing people off with that temper of his. Dad’s particular brand of crazy tends to rub people the wrong way. The only reason more people haven’t put a shotgun on him is that he is really good at what he does and sometimes unpredictably charming. Irrespective of that, Dean’s inner circle is dad’s inner circle in a lot of ways, with a few stellar exceptions. That means Dean has to be careful. Just look at what happened with Bobby.

Dean thinks about these things as he’s driving. Sam migrated to the backseat at the last rest stop and has folded himself into a surprisingly comfortable looking ball. He’s asleep, face buried under the dark hoodie he’s appropriated from Dean. It’s an oddly endearing sight.

They did a quick salt-and-burn last night and Sam’s out cold now, tired from the two days of research and preparation before the digging. Dean’s getting a little spoiled with the help, the extra pair of hands at gravesites. Not to mention the extra gun. It wasn’t anything big, that job. Dean got a text from dad and traded it with another hunter he knows. He’s not announcing his whereabouts to the ever cagey John Winchester anytime soon. And he’s not taking jobs from anyone he knows might owe that kind of favor either. When dad called he simply told him he’d swapped it with someone he knew in the area. Dad couldn’t fault him for it. That’s the kind of game they’re playing now.

Dean told Sam about the switch and the reasons why. It meant a little more work for them, but Sam is more than smart enough to understand the necessity. Sam had given him this sly half-feral smile that Dean really doesn’t know what to do with. It always hits him like a punch to the stomach. There’s approval there, something like an appreciation for how high the stakes are and how subtle the game. Like poker, only with more weapons. Sam appears to enjoy that kind of thing.

John still seems to be waiting for Dean. Dean’s not sure how he can make it anymore clear that he’s not changing his mind. It’s not just about Sam, either, it’s that whole thing. There are other kids out there with other talents and Dean doesn’t think they’re right about them either. It seems to him that if they really wanted to do something about it, the much smarter thing would be to actually talk to these kids and explain to them that something is going on. It goes against every instinct hunters have, though, that deep conviction they all seem to live with that cloak-and-dagger is better. Hiding is better, shutting up is better, staying in the shadows is better.

Dean hadn’t realized how fucking tired he was of all that perpetual lying and hiding until he met Sam and started having honest conversations about all this stuff with the kid. It’s … freeing in a way. A little scary too. Dean’s always been sure that if he ever told anyone about what he is, what he does, the kinds of things he’s seen, whoever he was telling would run away screaming or kick him to the curb. He’s somehow managed to find someone who has just as much crazy going on, if not even more. Sam said pretty much the same thing. Sam lived with all that shit and thought that it was the real kind of crazy that gets treated in a rubber room with a big bottle of pills in pastel colors. Dean’s not scared of much, but getting locked up like that? The mere thought of it makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly.

The radio sputters a little, spewing news at him of another school shooting, another political scandal, another Hollywood b-lister gone off the rails. Dean’s not great at keeping up with current events, can’t remember if he’s ever even thought of the country threatening an embargo. He’s not the kind of guy that keeps up with sports or politics or the drunken shenanigans of some mediocre pop singer. It’s kind of hard to find all that important when you’re knee-deep in Sumerian protective sigils or rites of the dead in Latin while trying to figure out where to find someone to mold you some better quality silver bullets. He’s found a connection on a Reservation in California. They have the weirdest laws about that stuff.

The last time he was there he flew kites with the kids while the bullets got made. Then he was invited to a meal and sat for a long time looking out at the chicken scratched land with a beer in his hand. The food had been simple, but really good. Heavily Mexican influenced, for some reason, probably through marriage, Dean thinks. It had that momma’s recipe feeling. Blue corn tortillas and empanadas for dessert. Sam would probably like it, Dean thinks. He should bring him next time. He will bring him next time.

People have superstitions. Not… not like that. Sometimes that’s all it is, superstition. Throwing salt over your shoulder if you spill it, hanging a horseshoe for good luck, making wishes on a wishbone, that kind of stuff. Some things are more personal, more specific. He remembers watching the smoke wafting from the thick bundle of herbs the slightly chunky woman at the Reservation burned before starting the work on his ammunition. She’d seemed completely unfazed by the fact that blessing your bullet making was kind of an odd thing to do. And Dean will take his blessings where he can get them, with stuff like that. He doesn’t mind a little extra good intention when he’s out there hunting bad things that want to kill him. It felt like old magic, anyway, something she would have done whether he was there or not. Magic’s probably not the right word, the politically correct word. He just got from it that he was in a culture that understands hunters.

Good intentions, Dean thinks, are tricky things. He knows his dad has them. He knows Bobby has them. He pretty sure every hunter out there has them, even when they’re being complete and total bastards. Good intentions and superstitions and magic for some reason seems to be what’s on Dean’s mind today. He thinks his own intentions are mostly good. He’d like to think it matters, but he’s not sure it does. Singing under his breath “I’m just a soul who’s intentions are good” and watching the road, wondering if he should get a police scanner, listen to that instead.

It’s maybe another hour or so and then Sam is leaning up, scratching his nails over the back of Dean’s neck and asking if they can find some food. Dean doesn’t even flinch, saw the kid moving. It’s still the kind of contact that makes a shiver ripple down Dean’s spine. It’s an unexpectedly pleasant feeling.

Sam does things like that now, touching Dean in odd little ways. It’s never overt or insistent, it’s never things Dean would predict. Instead there are little things like this, Sam’s short nails scratching pleasantly down his neck, bumping shoulders, a tug on Dean’s shirt cuff, a palm to the back of Dean’s shoulder blade. It’s not even flirtatious. It’s more… like he’s just being there. And Dean turns into it every fucking time, responds to it like he’s been waiting for someone to do just that, be just like that. He tries not to think too much about it. Just enjoys when it happens and goes along with it.

They find themselves beside a food truck painted a blinding yellow with a burst of orange and red like a sunset. It has tamales. It turns out to be one of those rare beasts, too, where the food is way too fucking good to have been cooked in what looks like an old remodeled RV with delusions of grandeur. Sam makes an obscene noise when he chomps into his Verde and looks at Dean like he’s just as surprised as Dean is. They actually go back for seconds and finish off with cocoanut ice cream pops. Sam still eats like he has a hollow leg. Dean’s finds himself reluctantly impressed at times.

Rail thin whipcord lean Sammy with his long, wild hair and his sharp eyes and graveyard dirt on his boots. Dean watches him lick a stray spot of ice cream off his wrist and gets hit by that deepening fondness that still jolts him a little. He likes this kid way too much.

Dean stretches until his spine pops. He’s feeling a little tight across the shoulders and there’s a low level ache of overuse in his lower back. Digging had been hard going, the soil dry and packed like cement.

-I could drive, you know, Sam says conversationally.   
-Not unless there’s blood loss, Dean replies.   
-Or busted ribs, yeah, I remember.

Dean shoots him a look. He’d almost forgotten about that. It feels like a long time ago, but it’s really not. Days go by, weeks, and it seems like it’s been him and Sam for a long time.

-We gonna get a motel tonight? Sam asks.

They’ve been sleeping rough for a couple of nights, sleeping bags on hard packed dirt under the stars. Not ideal, but really not that bad either. Big sky. Dean sometimes really likes a big sky with too many stars to count and clear lines of sight in all directions. On the other hand right about now they could both really use a shower.

-Another couple of hours of driving first, Dean tells him.   
-Good thing you like it. Would be terrible if you had to let someone spell you.   
-You really want to drive?   
-Nah, it’s okay. You drive and I’ll watch the cows. And the fields. And the cars. And the signs.   
-What, no road trip games?   
-Think I’ll pass. I’m a little old for I-Spy.

They settle into a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, watching people line up at the food truck. It’s doing good business. It should, too. They’re on the outskirts of some mid-sized town, they could just stop here for the night, but Dean’s not ready to call it a day yet. He’s in that weird zone where he knows he won’t be able to settle down if they stop now. He wants to be tired enough to fall into bed and drop off once they have a room. He’s just about to suggest they get a move on when his phone rings.

Pastor Jim is back from his retreat.

It feels like a really long time since Dean’s even thought about that call. He’s been waiting for it, but it got shuffled to the bottom of the to-do list and then stuff happened and … yeah, he’s been waiting for it, but he just kind of forgot he’s been waiting for it. Or something like that.

Talking to Jim is always a mildly weird experience. He’s polite and soft-spoken, but there’s a core of strange quiet resolve in him that makes it feel like you’re always one step away from the confessional. He’s one of those guys who actually wants to know when he asks how you’re doing. It used to throw Dean a lot more than it does these days. He’s gotten better at dissembling.

Sam is watching Dean’s end of the conversation with a slight tilt to his head and sharp awareness in his gaze. Dean talks to Jim about coming out to see him while looking Sam dead in the eyes. The sensation he gets from that is a little like resonance, like there’s a low-level hum somewhere between him and the Pastor and the kid in front of him. All that tells him is that this could get interesting. Jim says they’re welcome any time during the week after next. He’s just gotten back and he’s working through a backlog of calls and letters and requests. Plus he’s got his regular duties to attend to.

When Dean hangs up Sam is standing right next to him, close enough that he could listen in to most of the latter half of that conversation. Sam’s expression is cautious, but he’s leaning into Dean just enough that Dean can feel it. It makes Dean want to reassure him for some reason. Intentions and magic and superstitions. Yeah, things are probably going to get interesting when they get to Blue Earth. 


	43. Attention

Having a plan makes things seem easier, like they’re moving with a purpose. There’s a direction to head in and Dean’s gotten used to this kind of uneven pace where he’ll drift from one hunt to another for a while and then get precise instructions on where to be and when to be there, so it’s familiar. There’s no real hurry now. He figures that’s probably a good thing, because they need to catch up on sleep and laundry and maintenance and do all that mundane, boring stuff.

They find a motel painted a pale eggshell that has a coffeemaker and a somewhat functioning air conditioner and the same god-awful ugly bedspreads that seem to find their way into every single motel room Dean’s ever stayed in, except maybe that place in Nevada that had handmade quilts. One whole section of the parking lot is walled off with one of those noise reducing walls that never work as well as they should, but at that point all Dean wants is to get horizontal and unconscious, so he doesn’t really care.

The first two days they mostly just sleep and eat. Sam gives up on trying to get the wireless to work after the first day and spends his time watching nature documentaries instead, the odd sounds of jungles and savannahs and undersea exploration making their way into Dean’s fractured dreams. He’s got gorillas in the mist and whales pitching their strange tunes at him. It’s a welcome change from the blather of news and commercials.

Then they spend a day doing laundry and cleaning out the car and cleaning up themselves and just getting everything squared away. There’s a gas station with a self-service car wash sharing a parking lot with the laundomat and Sam finds himself a coffee place that’s called something with Java across the street from a pawn shop. Dean checks out the pawn shop because you never know, those places sometimes have awesome stuff, sometimes dangerous stuff and sometimes just the most unexpected weapon you’ve ever laid eyes on. Dean likes to poke around a little, see what there is to find.

It’s about as domestic as they get. Well, that and a trip to a bar called Ralph’s or Boots or something like that. The place is wholly forgettable, and that includes the name, the patrons and the food. They don’t stay more than an hour or so, just enough to have a couple of beers and then they amble back to the motel. It’s not that Dean couldn’t drive, it’s more that they’ve been sitting around all day and they both need to stretch their legs. Sam had been mostly invisible at the bar, kind of quiet, not like that night when he’d drawn attention from everyone. Not that he doesn’t have Dean’s attention. He does. A part of Dean’s awareness is always attuned to Sam now.

They take turns in the shower when they get back, Sam going first and coming out with his hair still curling wetly at the ends and dripping down the collar of one of Dean’s washed out green t-shirts. Dean gets himself clean and dry and shaves down to smooth skin, because he’s been getting a little bristly over the last week and that’s not exactly a look he goes for. Besides, it itches.

When he walks out of the tiny, muggy bathroom Sam is sitting up in bed, back to the headboard, knees drawn up, flipping idly through the channels of the potbellied TV and looking distracted.

-Okay? Dean asks.

Sam looks over at him and his gaze just sticks on Dean like taffy. For a second Dean’s tempted to look down at himself, see if he’s put his shirt on inside out or something, but the air gets heavier around them and this is another of those drawn out moments that seem to happen out of the blue, where they can’t look away from each other. Sam is nodding absentmindedly in answer while his gaze roves leisurely over Dean. His thoughts are obviously miles away. The thing is, Dean knows that look. It’s far from the first time he’s seen it.

Dean’s pretty good at being good. He’s got a very clear understanding of lines and common garden variety appreciation in contrast with something like real want. What he’s seeing on Sam right now is deeper and hotter than that. What he’s seeing on Sam is a little wild and hungry.

So instead of being good and nice and all that, Dean decides to acknowledge it. He smiles at Sam, that private indolent smile that he knows can get him things. If Sam had looked away from that, Dean would have just gone to bed and turned over and tried to get to sleep before it becomes an issue. Sam’s focus doesn’t waver. Well, okay then.

Dean drags the towel over his hair one last time before hanging it over the back of a chair and keeps walking until he’s standing at the foot of Sam’s bed, between him and the TV, blocking his view.

Ideally Sam would ask. But Dean has started to think that won’t ever happen. He’s not entirely sure why. Maybe Sam can’t. Maybe he doesn’t know how. And Dean would second-guess himself to death if it wasn’t for the look in Sam’s eyes, the way he doesn’t flinch when Dean puts one knee on the edge of the bed.

-Tell me no, Dean says, voice clear but rough, stopping there.

Sam looks at him, eyes burning, for a long moment. Dean catches the way his grip on the remote tightens, knuckles almost going white, before relaxing again.

-I don’t want to, Sam says and his tone is low and oddly contrite.

Dean smiles at him, keeps smiling at him. Inches a little further up the bed, putting a hand down, getting ready to slink forward, jungle cats on his mind, probably from some show Sam was watching earlier, the chuffed growls of tigers and the strange caterwauling of jaguars infiltrating Dean’s dreams. Sam’s attention is a physical thing, palpable as a caress. Dean steals another inch, leaning down into it and putting some showmanship into the curve of his shoulders, the stretch of his back. Sam doesn’t fidget, but he eases one of his legs down, the sheets still tented over his drawn-up knees. That feels a little like Dean could get a kick to the face. There’s not really a threat there, but there’s something, some kind of preparation for movement that could be swift and cruel. Dean doesn’t want that, doesn’t even want to risk it, so he reaches out slowly, putting a hand on the ankle closest to him and gives a careful guiding tug on it, wanting to unlock Sam.

Sam goes with it, easing both legs down and open, making just enough space that Dean can sneak in a little closer before he puts his own belly down on the mattress and props himself up on his elbows between Sam’s spread thighs. He grades his smile differently this time, making it an offer. Sam would have to be a lot more stupid than he is to miss the meaning here, and if there’s one thing Sam most definitely is not, it’s stupid.

-Jesus, man, you want to? Sam asks and now he sounds disbelieving.

It opens another crack in Dean’s heart for the kid, because, really? Really? No one has ever treated this kid just… nice? Never mind right, because that’s a fool’s game and it’s never the same for two different people, but just… nice, you know? Uncomplicatedly nice. Though Dean kind of suspects they left uncomplicated behind a long time ago, if they ever really had it.

-I would love to, he says instead, still meeting Sam’s gaze, making it as much of a promise as he can.

Sam reads him over for intent, for concealed things, for hidden motives, for threats, for any- and everything and Dean just lets him. He must like what he sees because then Sam reaches down and pushes his fingers through Dean’s hair, hand giving a steady sweep down his neck, which is enough to make Dean shiver from how good that feels. Then Sam runs the backs of his fingers over Dean’s cheek in an incongruously sweet gesture.

-Tell me yes, Dean says, rubbing his cheek into the touch, clean-shaven skin smooth against Sam’s knuckles.

Sam rests the tips of his fingers against Dean’s lower lip and amuses himself with plumping it up a little.

-You have no idea, Sam tells him, voice like he’s sharing secrets.

But of course Dean does. Of course he knows. So he takes the tips of Sam’s fingers between his lips and sucks on them, laughing quietly when it makes Sam’s hips roll. Dean pulls back and steadies himself before reaching to ease the covers down.

-That’s a yes? Dean asks, because he’s going to need words here.   
-Yes, Sam tells him, serious as anything and then promptly loses his breath when Dean puts his free hand on Sam’s half hard cock.

Dean’s pretty much done talking after that, because he’s got more interesting things to do with his mouth, like nip at Sam’s hipbones and drag his lips over the sweetly bunching muscles of Sam’s lower stomach and whoa if that doesn’t make the kid crazy. It also makes Dean want to completely take him apart to the best of his ability, so he sets about doing that.

Mouth like his? He’s heard it all. But the thing about that is, Dean doesn’t take offense. He can eat a girl out until she’s pulling his hair and screaming for marriage and he can suck a guy down until he’s seeing Jesus and Elvis. He’s good at it. He likes doing it. It’s a very useful skill set to have.

He can do nice and slow and he can do fast and dirty. None of that now, though, now he’s going for plush and luxurious and just a little bit dreamy in a very dirty way. He doesn’t do that all that often, because it’s not something you do for a one night stand, in general. He wants to do this for Sam, though, keep running his hands over Sam’s stomach and thighs and down the slight fur of his legs over and over until Sam’s so sensitized those little hairs all over his body are standing up like he’s in a cloud of static electricity.

Dean keeps his mouth engaging and open, too, puts it everywhere, drags his lips along the crease in Sam’s thigh and down the inside of his leg where his inseam would rest, bumps over the occasional scar, but never dwells on them. And Sam is rock hard and clutching the sheet underneath them in a death grip before Dean’s lips even start feeling properly used. He’s got a little shivery tremble going too and Dean thinks that if he wasn’t so good at weaving a spell of touches Sam would just grab the back of his head and pull Dean’s mouth down over his cock.

He’s got Sam’s boxers completely off and the t-shirt rucked up. Skin and scars and hard muscle over bird bones and a thumping heart. Dean really likes it, having all of that laid out for him. Dean kisses the medallion of slick forming on Sam’s belly just beneath the head of his cock and smiles when that makes Sam’s thighs tighten around him.

And he’s keeping himself low on the bed, he’s keeping his weight off Sam, doesn’t want to make him feel weighed down, trapped. Sam’s half reclined against the headboard and watching, gaze avidly locked on what Dean’s doing. Dean gives him the ivory of his teeth, the velvet of his tongue. He gives Sam a reason to shiver and tremble and clutch at the sheets before he even takes Sam fully into his mouth.

It’s a messy business, Dean leaving trails of saliva over Sam’s skin before he gets to licking at the base of Sam’s cock, which has flushed a lovely rosy red by now and quivers at the first long lave of his tongue. Feels like Sam is dragging in huge, heaving breaths and holding them for long seconds before he lets them out in the kind of rush that makes Dean feel the expelled air hot and humid down his back. There are small noises riding on those exhales too. Those little gorgeous noises, not whining, but purring in high need, Sam begging with his body when he won’t say a word.

Sam’s got a nice size to him, a good handful and then enough to fill Dean’s mouth all the way to the back of his throat. He knew this already, though he hasn’t had the chance to enjoy the taste of him, the plum head and the way he’s put together to fit so well where Dean takes him down and doesn’t even gag. It’s one of those things that Dean’s always been able to do, for whatever reason, gag reflex irrelevant once he’s swallowed past it a couple of times. It’s mostly the noises that have him humping the mattress a little to get some relief for himself. He’ll get a hand on himself in a moment, but right now he just wants to rob Sam of the ability to keep up that controlled breathing. When Dean lets his steadying hand slide down to cup Sam’s balls Sam starts panting for him instead and that’s nice. That’s lovely.

Sam tastes a little bitter, a little salty. He tastes like something so good, Dean doesn’t even really think he’s ever had anything like it in his mouth before. It’s a strange thought, because it’s skin and slick and saliva and that shouldn’t be so damned good, but it is. Enough so that Dean makes a deep moan when Sam rocks up a little into his mouth and those noises of Sam’s pitch over into the tight wanting kind of frantic that makes Dean wonder if Sam’s going to ride his face after all. He’d let him, too.

Sam is being good, polite, Dean realizes. And that’s nice of him, but not really necessary, so Dean reaches for one of those clutching hands and unclenches it from the sheets before guiding it into his own hair, letting Sam keep hold of something better. Sam takes it. He knits his fingers in and clings on and then grabs Dean’s shoulder in a tight grip with his other hand and that’s when it all runs off the road from lazy and luxurious to Sam’s hips riding up while Dean really gets to work on him, sucking him down hard and fast and swallowing and pulling back slowly just to do it all over again, feel Sam move into it.

Dean works him over, long pulls and tight suction and Sam locking eyes with him while pouring out those sounds that make Dean so fucking hot for him. They’re heading over the cliff fast and this is where Dean usually gets “Jesus” and “oh, god” and “oh, yeah” and things about his cocksucking mouth. Not from Sam, though. From Sam he gets the completely unguarded, but still quiet noises that pitch up and get high and breathy before rumbling down and settling in Dean’s bones and then Dean can see it, he can see the glaze of pleasure in Sam’s eyes go completely opaque and do that inward focus turn you get when it’s so good your spine is melting before he spills in Dean’s mouth saying his name. “Dean”, he says. “ _Dean_ ”, like it’s something new, like it means more.

It breaks Dean down in a way he isn’t really ready for, because most of those times when he’s had someone like this, he’s never really had them like this. Most of them haven’t remembered his name, or even known his real name in the first place and Sam says it like it’s essential while Dean swallows him down and humps the bed and tries to remember how to breathe himself while Sam’s lungs work like a bellows and he’s shuddering through the aftershocks with Dean sweet-sucking him clean.

Sam’s boneless sprawl doesn’t last beyond Dean pushing a hand in between himself and the mattress. Sam sees the movement and then the hand on Dean’s shoulder tightens back into a firm grip. He pushes, uses his knee to force leverage against Dean’s ribs until he rolls over, flat on his back, so low on the bed that his legs are half hanging off and Sam slides himself down until he’s level with Dean and pushes his hand into Dean’s sweats joining Dean’s. They work him the rest of the way off together, Sam’s fingers weaving in with his own, Sam’s forehead pushed against the side of Dean’s neck angled so he can watch this too. Dean mostly sees the starbursts behind his eyelids and feels Sam’s body bleeding heat into his side.

Dean’s lying there feeling sated and honestly pretty pleased with himself when Sam shifts again, raising up on one elbow and giving Dean a long, scrutinizing look before leaning down toward him, putting his cheek to Dean’s. It’s a little confusing, Dean trying to work out what he’s up to, but Sam is close and warm and blatantly affectionate, so he lays there and waits for what’s next.

Turns out that what’s next is Sam slowly rubbing their noses together and then letting his face slide against Dean’s as he repositions himself working over to the other side, touching their faces together, again and again, pushing his nose in under Dean’s ear and then letting his lips drag over Dean’s throat, over his Adam’s apple. Sam’s breath courses over Dean’s skin, over his lips. It’s the strangest kiss that is not a kiss that Dean’s ever experienced. It’s also weirdly right. This is Sam not-kissing him in the best possible way, gentle and thorough. Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck and enjoys being touched so intimately. He can’t remember anyone ever doing anything like this to him before, feeling him out like this, one of Sam’s hands on Dean’s throat now, so tender, so careful. Dean can feel the low base of his own pulse throbbing in his lips anyway.

They don’t sleep in the same bed. They could try it, but it might turn out to be more of a contact sport than relaxing. Nightmares haunt Sam and Dean understands that only too well. It’s not that Sam doesn’t want the closeness, Dean thinks, this strange touchable, untouchable kid. Sam falls asleep on his side, turned towards Dean, hair a tousled mess falling over his face and one arm tucked in tight to his own body. Dean lays there watching him for a little while. He thinks of the way Sam said his name like some name saints.

Tomorrow they’ll get back on the road and Dean will track down good coffee and Sam will smile for him and this feeling inside Dean’s chest will settle. It’ll grow, he’s sure now, but he’ll learn to accommodate it. He really doesn’t have any other choice anymore.

 


	44. Plans

Having a plan? Great. Good. Excellent. Yeah, having a plan is always a good idea.   
The thing about plans? They get fucked.

If everything had been going the way it should … no, wait, that isn’t right. If Dean hadn’t gotten so caught up in… No, that’s not it either.

The problem is “if”. Without that goddamned “if” everything would have been just fine.

Okay, so Dean’s bullshitting himself now, he can see that.

There’s one thing Dean’s learned over the years, a lesson sunk into his very marrow. Never make the assumption that everything is going to work out according to plan and never, ever get complacent. That’s not two things, even though it might look like it. They go together. Stay alert, stay vigilant and don’t make assumptions. Fuck.

Dean did, though. He made the assumption that they had the time to meander in a leisurely pace up to Blue Earth. Stop a few times on the way, maybe take in some sights, go to a game or a movie or something. Buy a couple of new shirts. Get some time in at some gym somewhere, maybe a shooting range, too, work on Sam’s precision. Get another shot at laying Sam out like a three course meal and work him over. Simple plans, but still.

Instead things goes sideways so fast Dean’s boots are still skidding.

Sam offers to go get breakfast and Dean doesn’t really think much of it. It takes about ten seconds for Sam to walk back through the door. He’s wide-eyed and pale, giving Dean one of those desperate looks before barking out “Rabbit” and going for his stuff. Dean has just about opened his mouth when the room phone starts ringing and Dean looks at Sam who stares at it like it could jump up and bite him on the face. Dean doesn’t think about it, he just shunts open the window in the bathroom and gets Sam and their luggage out before slithering through himself. There’s a knock at the door as his boots hit the ground and Sam is already running by then, heading away from the road and into a garden surrounding one of the properties nearby. Dean gives a fleeting thought to his car, slides the window closed silently and follows. He really can’t afford to lose track of Sam right now.

Pelting through the neatly manicured shrubbery around the corner of the house Dean gets grabbed by the arm and almost takes Sam’s head off before he manages to haul himself under control. Sam just pushes at him, making him plaster himself to the side of the house. Then he lowers himself into a half crouch and sneaks a look around the corner. They can see the motel, the door to their room and the black gleam of Dean’s car from here. They can see the guy standing with the manager at the open door, peering inside.

-He’s not going in, Sam whispers to Dean.

Salt lines. Dean’s been laying down salt lines because it supposedly helps with Sam’s dreams. Whatever that is at the door, it can’t cross the threshold. The manager looks a little confused and then angry as the guy pushes him into the room before following with what Dean can only think of as smug satisfaction a second later. The inherent problem with the lines is that they’re easily scuffed.

-That him? Dean asks.   
-Malden, yeah. Never seen him look so rough.   
-Come on, move.

Dean leads them on a circuitous route itching for a weapon the whole time. He can’t in good conscience walk around with his gun out, though, and it wouldn’t help here if he could. While they try to stay as inconspicuous as possible Dean reorders his thoughts and blanks everything back to the here and now. He can’t do an exorcism himself. He doesn’t know how and he isn’t ordained. The threat to Sam is getting overwhelmingly close and more dangerous and that’s not going go away. Dean starts formulating a rough plan in his head that’s a little like playing chicken with a sixteen wheeler, but it doesn’t feel like they have all that many options right now.

When they round the corner back to the motel after an hour or so there’s no one there but Dean can feel the prickle of eyes on him.

-What are we doing, Sam asks head still swiveling to keep an eye on their surroundings.   
-Getting the car.   
-I got that much, Sam bites back.

It’s simple really. Terrifying, but simple. They need to lead this guy out of here, because there are civilians who can get caught in the crossfire. And they need to lead this … guy, this thing wearing Sam’s old math teacher like a suit, out of here and onto somewhere they can take care of him. Luckily they’re only about a four hour drive from Jim’s place and they weren’t supposed to show up there for another couple of days, but that’s fucked and so. Yeah. Dean just hopes they can make this work.

They get to the car all right. They drive out sedately, nice and inconspicuous. Sam is tensing in the shotgun seat, Dean can see him pressing down on an imaginary accelerator, willing Dean to burn rubber. That’s not what they’re going to be doing, though. As soon as they’re leaving the town behind Dean spots the tail. He made the trail wide enough and obvious enough. If he really had wanted to lose the guy he would have gone about all this differently. Now, though, it’s crucial that the guy follows.

-What are we doing? Sam asks again and now he sounds just a little bit pissed, which is good, is better, because anger is better than the blind fear Dean saw in his eyes earlier.   
-Baiting a trap, Dean tells him.

Then he fishes out his phone and calls Pastor Jim. He tells him they’re going to be early and he tells him they’re coming in hot. Jim’s only reply after a considering kind of silence is to ask how hot. And that’s one of the things Dean likes about the guy.

It’s a harrowing drive. They don’t stop for anything, hardly even slow down unless they absolutely have to and Dean lays it all out for Sam while they’re stuck like that, what an exorcism is really like. Sam is whiteknuckling it, holding on to his calm in that fierce determined way that Dean recognizes all too well by now.

-I ran, I hid and it took months and months for him to find me. Why is it so easy for him now? Sam asks.   
-It, Sam, not him. I think that’s probably my fault. At least indirectly. We’re easier to track when there’s two of us.   
-I thought you had protection, spells on the car or whatever, Sam says.  
-I do, but those mostly work on people. It can actually be more like a beacon for something that can sense the supernatural. It’s not always true, but I think in this case that thing’s probably locked on to it as a kind of signature. It’s figured out a way to track us down using that.

Sam doesn’t say anything to that, just rubs his forehead tiredly and looks strained.

-You okay? Dean asks, because the kid isn’t looking so hot.   
-Headache. ‘S what the coffee’s for. Helps with the migraines.

They can’t stop. They really can’t and Sam knows it. Dean should have figured that one out, though, shouldn’t he? Sam drinks coffee like some people pop pills. It’s medicine to him. Dean should have seen that.

-I think there are painkillers in the glove box, Dean says.   
-They don’t do shit, Sam tells him and stares out the window.

Dean’s phone goes off just as he’s about to argue that Sam can at least try them. It’s Jim again and this time he’s giving directions. When Dean hangs up Sam is looking at him, waiting for information.

-Jim’s got a place set up, Dean says.

Sam just looks at him.

-Look, it’s not like we can drive right up to the church and hope this thing tags along, holy ground and all.   
-So that’s true?   
-Holy ground? Yeah, of course it is.   
-Never made any difference for me.   
-Sammy... Dean starts, but Sam cuts him off.   
-No, thing in my dreams doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by things like that. I slept at a hostel in a church for a couple of weeks and it didn’t make a lick of difference.   
-Don’t worry about that right now. We’re basically running the gantlet Wile Coyote style here, hoping not to get flattened. If we pull this off we can talk about all that stuff with Jim after.   
-And if we don’t pull it off? Sam asks.   
-Run like hell and don’t look back.

Sam looks at him like he’s being intentionally stupid and doesn’t hide the sneer twisting his features.

-You really are an asshole, he mutters and Dean takes that for what it is.

Jim’s directed them to a house on the outskirts of town. It’s not one of those rundown shitholes that Dean’s seen so many of when he grew up, more like an old classic farmhouse, but it’s got that feeling to it, like it hasn’t been lived in for a long time. The weeds in the garden have grown tall and strong, but someone’s taken a scythe to the grass pretty regularly. Once he’s killed the engine everything is country silent for a moment, nothing but birds and insects and the far off drone of some plane dusting crops.

Sam has been quiet for the last long leg of the drive, his forehead scrunched up in a blistering scowl and his eyes hard and mean. He’s hurting, Dean can see that, but he’s pissed off too and that’s still a better thing for him to be. Dean doesn’t like the tense set of his shoulders, but then he’s feeling a little like a clenched fist himself. This bad feeling of being in the sights of something as dangerous as the thing stalking them right now is deeply unnerving. Every hunter worth his salt knows this sensation, the pressure of eyes on them, the bad regard in that, the ill intent behind it.

They get out and grab a bag each and go up the steps to the door which Dean finds unlocked. Sam’s on his heels, silent and edgy. Dean walks in soft footed, thinking it would just really make his day if this was a double trap. Once he’s cleared the dusty hallway and eased open the door to his left finding nothing but an empty closet, he continues forward into what must have been the parlor at some point. Sam’s so close Dean can feel him breathing. There are odds and ends, some pieces of furniture, some crates and things scattered around. The dust is settled pretty heavily, but there are obvious scuffmarks where things have been moved recently.

When Jim steps out of a doorway leading into the deeper recesses of the house and says Dean’s name in greeting he gets two barrels in the face, both Dean’s and Sam’s. He probably saw that coming, judging from how he just freezes there, showing his empty palms and saying “pax vobiscum” smiling calmly. Dean lowers his gun immediately but Sam’s barrel comes down more slowly, lingering long enough to make a point.

-You got set up okay? Dean asks.   
-Hello to you too, Dean. Always a pleasure to see you, Jim says still with that gentle half smile playing around his lips.   
-We’ll do niceties in a minute, but I wasn’t kidding when I said we’re coming in hot, Dean says shaking the hand Jim holds out to him in greeting.   
-I see. Yes, everything is ready, Jim answers and then extends his hand to Sam who has shifted so he can keep an eye on the part of the room Dean has his back to. “And you must be Sam.”

Sam nods once and doesn’t bother with the handshake. He’s not really being rude, he’s just distracted and on edge and very much not in the mindset of making friends at the moment. Dean’s a little worried what the headache might mean in terms of getting this done, but at most Sam is going to be running interference so it shouldn’t be much of a problem. Dean gives Sam a nudge with his elbow and Sam’s attention snaps to him and then to the hand Jim is still holding out. Sam has to shift his gun into his other hand before offering a brief handshake and what sounds like a mumble of “et cum spiritu tuo” which Dean figures makes sense to Jim, at least.

-Where? Dean asks.   
-The next room is best suited, Jim says with his eyes still riveted to Sam who’s attention has already gone back to keeping an eye on the surroundings. Dean watches Jim watch Sam for a moment before clearing his throat.   
Jim’s gaze snaps back to him and Dean raises eyebrows meaningfully.   
-Yes, of course, Jim mumbles to himself and turns around walking deeper into the house. “How long do you think?”   
-No more than half an hour. It dropped back once the traffic started thinning.   
-You don’t think it will wait until nightfall? Jim asks.   
-No. It came at us in broad daylight in public. I think it’ll come through the door the second it gets here, guns blazing.   
-Actual guns or metaphorical ones? Just so I will know if I should duck, Jim says.

Dean just smiles at him, shrugs. He has no idea, but he thinks if the thing had guns he’d be dead already and Sam would be … wherever the thing would want to put him. In the trunk of a car? Tied up in a basement somewhere? He really has no idea.

The room they move into is completely empty except for a large fireplace at the far wall. Jim’s drawn something on the ceiling, some huge complicated pattern involving overlapping circles and some serious-looking squiggles that mean nothing to Dean. He looks at it from all angles and then keeps going. Dean can see why Jim chose this room. It’s got two entrances, one from the parlor and one that leads into the kitchen and it’s only got two windows, both covered with storm shutters. It’s about as inconspicuous and complete a trap as they can make on short notice.

Sam and Dean move into position, settling down in front of the open fireplace, pretending to be trying to start a fire, building up a little pile of old newspaper and sticks while Jim keeps out of sight. Dean works quietly, both of them pretending not to hear the creak of floorboards and the whine of a hinge that needs oil. It’s not like they would have noticed if they hadn’t been listening with every fiber for those little tells. Sam is not happy about any of this, Dean knows. He isn’t happy about the whole being bait idea and he isn’t happy about the fact that Dean wants him out of the room the second they’ve got the thing and he isn’t happy about the fact that there’s someone he doesn’t know and doesn’t trust between him and the only other exit and he sure as fuck isn’t happy about Dean telling him to run if this doesn’t go the way they hope it will.

Dean reaches out and grabs a handful of Sam’s shirt, shakes him a little, knuckles to Sam’s collarbone. Sam frowns, but gives him solid eye contact for the first time in hours. Dean looks him in the eyes for a long moment, making sure they’re both here, that Sam’s not going to do anything stupid and Sam finally gives a little nod. Dean nods back and lets go just as someone behind them lets out a disgusted snort.

-Well, that was disappointingly easy.

Dean knew the thing had made it in the room, but he swivels like he’s surprised and gets his gun up and pointed at the figure standing in the doorway. Sam scuttles back and away, making them two separate targets and fumbles for his own gun. The man in the doorway doesn’t really look all that imposing. He’s of average height, wearing a dull brown suit that’s seen better days. His hair is that indeterminate color between blond and brown and thinning at the temples. He’s unshaven and bland looking, but there’s something about the way he moves when he walks deeper into the room that makes him seem more intimidating than his unremarkable stature really can carry.

-There you are, he says, “Why did you run from me? We were getting along so well.”

Sam doesn’t answer, just point his gun at the thing. The way the man moves reminds Dean of a snake swaying in front of its prey trying to hypnotize it. Sam shifts so his back is against the wall and inches himself up into standing.

-No need to be so hostile, darling boy, the thing continues, eyes glittering with excited menace. “After all, I only want what’s best for you.”

Dean can tell the thing is using something that Malden said, something that helped form the connection between them in the first place, judging from the way Sam’s eyes go cold in reply.

-Oh, you can fuck right off with that bullshit, Sam says.

The thing tsks at him and shakes its head in a mockery of disappointment.

-So antagonistic. And such bad language. What a disappointment to all those people who put so much faith in you. You should have heard how upset they were when you disappeared, just ran away like the sad little boy you are.

Now, Dean’s seen Sam angry before. Or, at least he thought he had. He’s seen Sam frustrated and pissed off and coldly dismissive, but he’s never seen the ice burn of rage that Sam has going right now. Sam doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, pointing his gun and chewing on all the words he wants to spit back. Dean’s obviously gone invisible and he kind of wants to yell “hey, asshole, guy with a gun right here” just to get that thing to stop looking at Sam like he’s a particularly tasty piece of meat that he wouldn’t mind eating raw. The only good thing is that the thing is stalking forward, laughing at their weapons and so fucking pleased with itself that it doesn’t even realize its stuck until it hits an invisible barrier and gets a look on its face of befuddlement and outrage that gets swiftly followed by hissing anger.

It starts cursing at them and Dean kind of wants to say something about how it’s not so smart after all, something about how you shouldn’t ever underestimate a hunter, something smartass and glib, but the thing is that Sam still hasn’t lowered his gun. And right about now it would be good if he did, actually, because there’s still a guy in there. They talked about this, Dean explained all this in the car. Right now, though, it doesn’t look like Sam gives a shit.

-Sam, Dean says, calmly. “Sammy, gun down.”

That makes the thing stop swearing. It looks from Sam, who is slowly lowering his weapon to Dean and then it laughs, a slow dirty sounding chuckle.

-Ooh, Sammy. And we thought giving you daddy was what you wanted, it says. “We should have given you big brother. Though it looks like you made yourself a present instead.”

Dean’s had just about enough of this fucking thing already and he’s only been in the same room with it for a couple of minutes. Jim makes his entrance then, bible open in his hand, though Dean knows he doesn’t really need it.

-Oh, come on, we were just getting to the fun stuff, the thing says, pitching itself towards the barrier like it wants to hurl itself after Sam as Dean herds him out of the room.

Dean meets Jim’s gaze as they pass and there’s determination in the man’s eyes, the steel that lies beneath his mild manner all out in the open for anyone to see. This is the holy man with a mission and a deep abiding faith in a greater power going into battle with nothing but words and conviction on his side. Dean’s always though that’s a daunting notion, nothing but faith between him and the great void, but then he’s never been able to believe the way Pastor Jim does.

-You shouldn’t be here for this part, Jim says quietly in passing.   
-We’ll be outside. Yell if you need me, Dean answers.

Sam doesn’t even look back as the low chanting starts, Jim’s voice a quiet metronome of implacable faith, each word imbued with devotion and intent. Dean walks them through the kitchen and out the backdoor onto a wide porch with the kind of sturdy railings that will take another hundred years of neglect to start withering. There’s screaming coming from the house now, vitriolic curses and insults trying to drown out the low hum of Latin. It’s not going to be pretty, this whole thing. And it’s not going to be fast, either.

Sam meets Dean’s gaze still with that grim look in his eyes.

-So far, so good, Dean says.   
-That seem a little too easy to you? Sam asks.   
-Not really. Jim’s got a couple of hours of work ahead of him and that’s not going to be fun for anyone. Trust me.

And it isn’t. It really isn’t.

Between Sam pacing increasingly restlessly back and forth and the voices ebbing and rising in the house and the sheer fucking weight of the whole situation pressing down on them, Dean’s getting a pretty miserable tension headache going too. He’s watching, listening, staying alert himself. He doesn’t try to calm Sam down, because there’s no point, really. It’s better if Sam stays keyed up, ready for anything.

The noises coming from inside are disturbing, to say the least. There will be a long lull where they can’t make out much of anything and then they can hear screaming and yelling and cursing. Some of it is in some language Dean hardly even recognizes and Sam keeps flinching every time it happens. There’s very little “the power of Christ compels you” about all this, and a lot of steady, determination on Jim’s part. The liturgy of an exorcism takes about forty-five minutes to read through, but that’s supposing the subject just sits there and takes it. This thing sure as fuck isn’t doing that. It’s fighting this every inch of the way.

All Dean can do is stay on target and watch Sam pace and pace and pace. It’s like that one time when Dean went to a zoo and watched a scruffy looking tawny wolf lope back and forth behind a tall wire fence following a rutted groove in the enclosure. Dean’s always hated this kind of waiting. And he wonders idly what it’s like for Sam, who has lived with the threat of this thing tracking him down for years. 


	45. Sanctuary

Malden doesn’t make it. It would have been a miracle if he had, really. Years of possession and demons aren’t exactly gentle with the people they take. Dean knows it’s over when the noises from the house stop and everything stays quiet. He still doesn’t feel like he can really exhale and relax just yet.

Sam is sitting a little ways away from him on what used to be the lawn. There’s a kind of pillar that must have been the stand for a sundial or a birdbath or something and Sam’s been perched there playing idly with his knife for the better part of an hour. That’s when he’s not rubbing tiredly at his own head or scowling at the house. At least he stopped pacing at some point. Small mercies.

Jim looks rough when he comes out the door. He looks like he’s gone a few round with someone way out of his weight class. His face is more careworn than Dean’s seen it for a long time. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passes and gives it just enough weight that Dean knows he’s supposed to stay put and then he heads for Sam. And… as nice as that intention probably is, Dean’s not the kind of dog that does tricks like that, so he gets up and follows Jim over.

Sam is looking at the pastor, eyes calm, but guarded. He’s got that knife in his hand, making looping swirls as he twirls it idly. His hair is falling in his face and he’s sitting with his shoulders hunched, his posture deceptively shrunken in on itself. Jim stops a few steps away from him and Dean thinks that’s probably smart, all things considered.

-I am sorry, Jim says. “I could not save him. The demon was very strong and it had been in possession for a long time.”   
-Yeah, I figured, Sam says and his voice sounds rusty.   
-I know you knew him. He had family. I would very much like to be able to return him to his loved ones and make sure that he is interred properly.   
-Sure, Sam bites out.

Dean looks from Sam to Jim and then back to Sam. Sam doesn’t look like he believes this is over yet. Sam looks like he’s expecting the other shoe to drop and Dean hates that he knows that expression so well.

-Wasn’t your fault, Sam, Dean says and catches the way Jim looks over his shoulder at him with mild exasperation.   
-If you say so, Sam says and stands up.

That seems to make Jim catch a clue, finally.

-Of course it’s not your fault, Sam, Jim says quickly in a tone that conveys all the sincerity he can muster.

The problem is that only makes Sam give that small disgusted curl of his lips that might look like a smile if you tilted it back the right way up. Jim actually looks a little taken aback by that and that’s when Dean figures that this is another of those times when someone has taken one look at Sam and seen just a kid. And a lost one, at that. That’s got to be frustrating, Dean figures, always being seen like some lost little boy. Sam’s a lot of things, but not that. And trying to placate him with platitudes is really not going to help right now.

-Wrong place, wrong time, kid, Dean says. “Sucks for everyone.”

And that actually works a little better, making Jim wince as an added bonus. He’s never liked Dean’s cynicism.

-You can say that again, Sam agrees and turns to Jim with his next question. “You need to dispose of the body right away?”  
-Dispose of the… Jim says and looks between them, gaze pingponging a few times. “I know the county coroner. It will all be taken care of.”  
-What are you calling this one? I don’t think car accident will cut it, Dean says and watches the slightest twitch of a real smile on Sam’s face out of the corner of his eye.   
-Heart attack would probably be more believable, Jim concedes.

Dean steps past him and puts himself next to Sam, shoulder to shoulder. Sam shuffles his feet just enough that their shoulders actually overlap, his own behind Dean’s, something going on there that Dean is too fucking tired to think about now that the adrenaline is starting to wash out of his system.

-It will keep until we get back to the rectory, though, Jim says and he’s got that look in his eyes that Dean swears is half the reason people around here keep coming to his sermons.

Sam is quiet on the drive. He’s got his head back on the headrest and his gaze is far away, tension slowly bleeding out of his frame. This is by far one of the best outcomes they could have hoped for, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone Sam thought of as a friend just died. Or … well, was revealed to be dead, or have been dead for a while. Dean’s never been good at the metaphysics of these kinds of things. It’s not the easy kind of clear outcome of having just removed a threat.

Jim had ridden his bicycle to the house, of all things, and insisted on riding it back too, to clear his head on the way, he said. Dean makes a point of stopping at the first coffee place he spots and buying Sam the biggest, meanest cup of Joe he can find, which gets him an expression of pure gratitude that’s actually deeper than what Jim got for performing a compete exorcism. It’s probably a little twisted how much that pleases Dean.

-How are you holding up? Dean asks when Sam’s downed half of the thing.   
-Worse things to come, Sam tells him and Dean shakes his head.   
-No one’s holding you responsible, he says.  
-I am.  
-Yeah, well. You take on too much. This is not on you, Dean tells him and reaches out, putting his hand on the back of Sam’s neck and kneading at the tension there. Sam lets him, but doesn’t say anything else.

The rectory is located in spitting distance of the church, holy ground too, Dean figures, but he’s never asked. The graveyard lays butted up against the back of the church and Dean figures there are probably a few more souls buried there than what the church’s records state. Jim’s done this before. He’s buried hunters too, people with no family and no one to miss them. Sam is looking a little more alive and slightly less like he’s about to do a runner, so that’s something. Dean parks the car around the back of the house, out of sight of casual visitors.

The rectory is a pretty big place, painted a modest white, with large windows and a well appointed garden. Jim likes growing his own tomatoes and herbs and things and Dean’s spent quite a few hours out there as a kid helping with weeding and fertilizing and stuff like that. Jim has a thing for staying connected to the cycle of living, the seasons and the balance of things. The house itself is not exactly cozy, but it’s well kept and welcoming. Jim’s bicycle is parked out front so Dean gets out of the car, grabs his bag and nods for Sam to do the same. It’s well passed dinner time already and they never even got breakfast this morning. He’s hoping for casserole. Jim has always been really good at those. Dean bangs the knocker before opening the door and walking in. He makes his way back to the kitchen where Pastor Jim is just putting a dish in the oven.

-Dinner will be in forty minutes. You should put your things away and wash up. We can talk once we’ve had something to eat, Jim says to them both and Dean says thanks and takes Sam with him up the stairs.

Jim’s usually got a bevy of guests coming through, other hunters, people of faith and people in need of help and scholars and members of the community who have fallen on hard times. Jim’s always had a very open door policy, so there are a couple of guest rooms and a kind of library on the second floor. Dean leads Sam past all that. At the end of the corridor there’s a section of wall that seems smooth until you put your hand in just the right place and push. It opens to reveal a much steeper staircase leading to a large space up under the rafters. At some point it might just have been an attic, but Dean’s always thought it was built this way as a part of the underground railway or something. It’s been where he’s stayed since he hit his teens and started needing space of his own. His dad never came up here, didn’t like it for some reason.

Sam is looking around, a little surprised and obviously liking it. There ceiling’s slanted, but still high and there’s the chimney that runs through the entire house from the bottom floor showing obvious, all exposed brickwork folded in to the wall. The big double bed is nestled in close to it. There are blankets and linens ready to be used.

-Get’s cold in the winter and kind of hot in summer. More privacy, though, Dean says and puts his bag down, still watching Sam.   
-Nice, Sam comments.   
-If you don’t want to share there are other guestrooms, Dean says.   
-I’m with you, Sam tells him like he’s being more of an idiot than usual.

And, yeah, he kind of figured Sam wouldn’t opt for one of the other rooms, what with this being unknown territory and all, but they’re going to have to share the bed and Dean doesn’t want him to feel obligated. Or tricked.

-Can you come over here for a minute? Dean asks, looking at Sam who is poking around kind of idly picking at random stuff that’s found it’s way up here over the years, odd stones and one bird skeleton and some books.

Sam gives him a searching look and then walks over, stopping just in front of Dean. Dean makes sure to look him in the eyes and move slowly when he puts one hand on Sam’s neck, tucking two fingers in under the collar of his shirt. Sam looks really fucking rough right now, eyes dark and haunted, that tight closed-off expression on his face hidden by a mask of pleasant nothing. Dean knows him well enough to know Sam’s not all right. He knows him well enough to know he’s not going to be all right for a while.

-We’re going to sit down to dinner. We’re going to talk to Pastor Jim about what’s going on. You don’t have to give him anything, you don’t have to tell him anything. I’m not leaving you alone with him unless you expressly ask me to. I brought you here because I think he can help. Anytime you want out you tell me. Okay? Dean says and adds a little shake to the last question for emphasis.

Sam nods and then nods again, more resolutely. Then he leans forward, tipping his head into Dean’s and resting their foreheads together. Dean’s actually surprised at the level of contact he’s getting right now and just stands there for it, feeling Sam’s breath on his skin and his hair tickling Dean’s face. He can almost feel Sam centering himself under his touch. It’s kind of mesmerizing. Dean thinks “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you” and Sam nods again, like he can hear him, forehead rubbing against Dean’s one last time before he draws a deep breath and pulls back, straightening up.

-Okay? Dean asks one last time.   
-Okay, Sam tells him.

Jim’s set places for them in the kitchen and the casserole is steaming gently in the middle of the table, giving off the decidedly inviting smell of real home cooked food. Dean’s always liked that. There’s a bowl of salad and freshly baked bread and big glasses of milk set up for them too. Dean sits down waiting until Sam follows suit before looking over at the Pastor, who’s just folding his hands for the prayer. Dean’s used to this, watching for Sam’s reaction, but Sam just bows his head and follows Jim’s lead. It’s obviously something he’s done before, which Dean finds intriguing the same way he finds most of the little chameleon things Sam does intriguing. Once everyone’s helped themselves to food Jim starts asking Dean questions about where he’s been and what he’s been doing since they last talked. Dean figures this is all about setting Sam at ease and he plays along with it, not bothering to tell Jim that there’s probably not much point in trying.

Sam is eating, politely, gaze going between Dean and Jim, working out the dynamic. Dean leaves him to it and talks to Jim, which seems to confuse Jim slightly at first, but he’s been doing what he does for a good long while, so he’s not one to just jump in and barge ahead. Jim is another of those intelligent guys that Dean finds himself embroiled with, but most of his intelligence is geared towards dealing with people, working out their issues and quirks. It’s not malicious, never that, but it’s still occasionally more intimidating than you’d think, being in a room with someone who can read you that well. He sees the way Jim tries to get a handle on Sam, on how to approach him. And the thing about that is… Dean can already tell how this can go entirely wrong very, very quickly.

Jim’s always been good with runaways, fringe dwellers, people with the deep kind of trauma that life so blithely hands out. He’s not reading Sam wrong, exactly, because he is pretty much reading what Sam is putting out, but that’s another kind of difficulty. Sam is very good at putting out what people want to read. So good at it, as a matter of fact, that Dean, who knows better, still gets drawn in by the shy, slightly broken air Sam gives off, that thing that makes him so inviting, that wounded baby bird thing, but Dean knows there’s too much going on under the surface for that to be all there is to him. If Jim takes that at face value, Sam’s going to run rings around him, same as he did with Bobby and John and Ash. And Dean too, to some extent.

They get through dinner amicably enough and Dean offers to do the dishes with Sam helping. Jim takes them up on it and offers to make them hot cocoa, of all things, which Dean says yes to out of polite reflex and Sam seems to be completely indifferent about. They have to at least get the preliminaries over tonight before they retire, so hot cocoa and sitting in the study it is. Sam finds himself a chair where he has a good vantage point of the doors and the other occupants and then folds himself into it, pulling his legs up and resting his cup of cocoa pressing into his chest, like he needs the heat. It’s like watching one of those nature shows where some animal makes itself small and inconspicuous, hiding fangs and claws and battle readiness behind a harmless front. Dean takes the couch and Pastor Jim sits down in his favorite chair by the fireplace.

-When I spoke with Dean he didn’t mention the trouble you brought with you today, Jim says, voice pleasant, addressing Sam directly.   
-He only just found out, Sam tells him, and his mild tone is a good rival for Jim’s, actually.   
-It must have been very difficult, living under that kind of threat, Jim offers.

Sam doesn’t answer, just looks at Jim with that blank expression that lets the person looking at him project their own interpretation on it. Dean leans back, the couch cushion taking his weight in a familiar and soothing way. He’s going to shut up now and just watch the show.

-You were very lucky to have met Dean when you did, Jim tries.

Sam’s gaze is so fucking sharp, all his intelligence thinly veiled by his hair and his posture and his meek demeanor. He still doesn’t say anything, but Dean can read it, the way Sam questions if luck is at all the term he’d use at this point. Sam takes a sip of the cocoa. Or… at least he raises the mug to his mouth. Dean never sees his throat working.

-You’re safe now, Sam, Jim says. “You’re safe in this house. It is a sanctuary.”

Sam gives him a slight smile and puts the cup down on the nearby table before straightening up just a little in his chair.

-Holy ground, Sam says, voice calm and clear. “Silverware actually silver. Holy water in the milk, salt at the doors, sigils, iron in the walls. Crosses. Dean would say you’re loading for bear.”

Jim smiles at him, that calm and serene and friendly smile.

-I deal with demons, Sam. They can be very insidious.   
-Yarrow in your garden. Sage. Marigolds, Sam says, still cool.   
-You should see the armory he keeps in the church, Dean tells Sam.

Sam flicks him a glance, amusement deep there, something he likes seeing a lot better than watching Sam’s chess game expression.

-Dean says you’re the guy to come to when it comes to demons. He says you know more, have more information, than Bobby. Or John. Is that true? Sam asks.   
-Well, not to blow my own trumpet, but yes, I have made a special study of the lore, Jim says with the appropriate amount of humility.   
-Who did you lose? Sam asks.

Jim’s face makes a kind of stutter, like a expressional stumble. Dean has never asked that, not ever. He never would, either. He knows those kinds of wounds fester down deep and he would never ever ask that of anyone in the hunter community. Sam, of course, doesn’t have that compunction and is completely ruthless about it.

-I can’t presume to be able to save everyone, Jim tells him. “I have lost more than one person to this particular kind of evil.”

Sam hums at that and looks over at Dean again.

-So you’re a crusader, Sam says and Dean knows that’s for his benefit, but he doesn’t really understand the significance right now.   
-That’s a very medieval way of thinking, Jim answers. “I don’t see myself that way.”   
-Just a humble servant of the Lord, then, Sam amends.

It’s Jim’s turn not to answer. The air feels like it’s gotten a little heavy.

-I see things in my dreams, Sam says, blunt and to the point. “There’s a man there. He likes talking to me. He talks about gifts. What can you tell me about that?”

Jim takes a contemplative sip of his own cocoa and then looks at Sam for a long moment, studying him and probably reevaluating what he thought he had observed earlier. Sam just let a little of his steel show and Jim acknowledges that with the kind of grace that Dean really wishes he could emulate, sometimes.

-I know what it means to have far sight. I’ve struggled with that my whole life, Jim tells him, just as blunt in his honesty now and open with it. “When I was a child it was thought to be a curse. So I prayed. When I went to the seminary I learned not to talk about it because priests can be terrible bigots. Now I chose to see it as a gift.”

Sam huffs a breath and his face is so completely unreadable that Dean knows they’re about a hair away from real trouble.

-What I have is not a gift. Or a choice. If I prayed every day of my life that wouldn’t change.  
-On balance I think we’re influenced by powers greater than ourselves more often than we believe. I can see that it has cost you. I fear it will probably continue to do so.

Sam’s expression reads like he’s not much for the platitudes now either.

-Influence is not the same as compulsion, Jim adds.   
-No shit, Sam says and his voice drops dark on that.

Sam studies Jim’s face for a long moment, watching the flicker of disapproval at the language and the slight amusement at the sentiment.

-You can’t help me, can you? Sam says, and the way he says it is so final.   
-I can try, Jim tells him. “At least I might be able to give you some tools, maybe even some answers. If you let me.”   
-I’ll believe that when I see it, Sam tells him.   
-That’s not actually what belief means, Jim rebuffs him mildly.   
-Faith in principle won’t help me. Neither will magical thinking. These things exist in the real world. They’re not going to go away because I want them to.

And that’s when Dean figures it’s time to put a stop to this discussion. He’d made the dire mistake of trying to debate faith with Jim before, and that never went anywhere productive.

-Okay, he says a little too loudly, drawing two sets of eyes to him. “This is way above my pay grade and I really don’t feel like being the referee in a discussion of faith between the two of you. I’m wiped and that will most definitely keep for tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”   
-Of course, Jim demurs immediately.

Sam gets to his feet and collects Dean’s empty mug to take into the kitchen leaving Jim and Dean conspicuously alone in the room.

-Dean… Pastor Jim says, tone lagging and hesitant, but Dean cuts him off quickly.   
-Yeah, I know. And, yeah, he’s always like that.   
-He seems angry, Jim muses.   
-He’s got cause.   
-Anger like that it can be very dangerous.   
-I kind of think it’s what’s kept him alive, Dean says before offering Jim a crooked smile and a goodnight.

Dean makes up the bed while Sam takes his turn in the bathroom. It really has been a spectacularly long day. And a really shitty one too. He’s got some hope for Sam with the pastor, even if it seems like they might have gotten off to a rocky start. And he figures Sam’s got some questions he’s going to want answers to. Not to mention they’re going to have to share a bed and that might get a little tricky. He’s not sure if there are going to be nightmares and strange three a.m. things going on. He kind of hopes not. He’s sitting propped up against the headboard when Sam comes up the stairs dressed in sweats and a tee.

He’s just about to try and break the tension with some shit line about not taking advantage and not being a stealth cuddler or anything when Sam drops his clothes on the dresser and calmly strides over to the bed, climbs up on it and keeps going right into Dean’s lap, straddling him.

… okay.

Dean’s hands go to Sam’s hips completely without any input from his brain. Sam’s hipbones fit in his cupped palms like they’re meant to be there. Sam is a lanky weight on his lap, ass pressing unapologetically into Dean’s crotch and Sam’s hands do this thing where he fits one palm to the side of Dean’s throat and presses the other over Dean’s heart which is honestly having a little pulse riot at the moment. Sam is looking at him, reading his expression and making some kind of decision that Dean thinks Sam’s not ready for, not really. Not right now, right here. Not that Sam gives a shit about time and place, obviously.

-What are you doing? Dean asks and his voice is doing things he’s not in on too, sounding all rough and pleased.

Sam rolls his hips forward and leans in, putting his mouth to Dean’s throat. Dean just tilts his head back for that fucking vampire bite posture and his hands tighten their grip. He doesn’t mean to encourage the movement, but he just got blindingly hard in like two seconds flat. Sam is pushing buttons like it’s his job right now.

-Sam, _Sammy_ , maybe you should slow down, Dean says, but he doesn’t really mean it.   
-No, Sam states and does another driving roll with his hips and yeah, okay, that seems like a much better idea.

Sammy’s most definitely driving right now and Dean has no problems with that. Dean spares a fleeting thought to how this is Pastor Jim’s house, but… yeah, he doesn’t really care. Probably bad manners but Dean’s not going to pretend he ever had that many good ones.

Sam gets them both out and has Dean in hand, pressing their erections together and giving slow swiveling grinding rolls of his hips, fucking them together and making Dean sweat like crazy for it, licking at Dean’s neck and just pushing this thing like Dean’s going to stop him if Sam gives him time to think about it. He might have, once upon a time. Dean might have tried to be that kind of good guy just a little while ago, when Sam was still shaking, but he’s not capable of much more than just moaning into Sam’s skin and going with it tonight, because they had a really tough day, but they made it out, and they’re still alive and Dean can smell the remnants of stress sweat in Sam’s hairline and he could have lost him today. They both need this, so fucking bad it’s going at breakneck speed and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. He wants to make Sam scream and distantly he knows that’s really not okay, so he’s shushing instead, and that’s for both of them, because he’s making a little too much noise himself.

Dean gets his hands up Sam’s t-shirt, the one that used to be his, and there’s so much warm, live skin there, so much texture to it, muscle and scar and Dean doesn’t care about that, he’d love to get Sam naked, but that’s not the way this works and he respects that. Sam’s decision, still, Sam’s call on how much of him Dean gets. Dean wants all of it. Dean would lay Sam down and fuck him right here on this bed, in this house, with the pastor downstairs and his odd collection of childhood memorabilia all around, when there’s a body cooling in the morgue and powers bigger than both of them, all of them, trying to make a wreck of it all. He can’t do that, he can’t ask for that, but Sam is pushing him higher and it’s good, it’s so fucking good, every time and Dean can’t keep his goddamned mouth shut, he’s too close.

-Fucking kiss me. _Please_ , he hears himself saying, voice torn down to rubble.

Sam’s hips still and his head comes up. His eyes are lust dark, unfathomable with it, and Dean thinks he’s messed up again, he’s broken this thing, he stalled it. And then Sam leans in that last scant inch, sweet and dark and delicious and fits his lips to Dean’s like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Kissing and kissing and kissing until they both come, oxygen deprived and collision bright.


	46. Shift

Sam’s one of those guys, he can be very hit and run. He puts himself back together while the sweat is still cooling and Dean’s heart is still going too fast. Sam climbs off Dean and out of the bed walking over to his bag while Dean’s still seeing bright things swiveling around in the corner of his vision.

The only window in the room is set high on the wall and it’s not particularly large. Sam has it cracked in no time and then there’s the rasp of a flint and the slow deep drag of him lighting a cigarette.

-No smoking in the house, Dean says, mostly perfunctorily and gets himself sorted out, shorts back over his hips, pillows behind his back.

Sam turns his head enough to give Dean a side glance while letting the smoke trickle from his lips in a thin plume out the window. Something about his eyes or his careful expression says that is probably not the first thing that the Pastor would have a problem with right now. He’s not wrong about that, but he is probably wrong about the reasons. Pastor Jim doesn’t make an issue of sexuality, he’s seen too many beat-up runaways for that, but he would pitch a fit about Dean pursuing someone in as vulnerable a situation as Sam on principle. The heat would most definitely be on Dean, as well as the censure.

Sam takes another deep drag and sweeps his hair out of his eyes with a careless motion that puts him in silhouette to Dean. There’s enough ambient light that he looks carved from some exotic stone, the glow from the ember highlighting the sheen of perspiration on his skin. He is altogether otherworldly right now despite the fact that Dean still has a lingering taste of him in his mouth. Dean watches Sam smoke and tries not to think about much of anything. It’s not that hard, really, he thinks Sam short-circuited part of his brain. In a good way. A very, very good way.

-Your pastor is going to have a lot to say tomorrow, Sam says quietly.   
-Probably.   
-You’re not going to like some of it.   
-That’s okay.

Sam’s mouth makes that half sneered grimace that’s not at all reassuring.

-You didn’t tell me he was psychic, Sam says.   
-Not my secret to tell, Sam. You can understand why.   
-Hmm, Sam rumbles. “More of a risk for me, though.”   
-Why? You don’t think he wants to help?   
-No, he wants to help. Look, Dean, I was on my own for a while. I used to go out with a strip of condoms in my back pocket and a knife down my boot. I did what I had to to survive and some of it wasn’t pretty. He’s going to have a lot of ideas about me.

Dean’s brain is coming back on line now. Regrettably.

-When have we ever met anyone who doesn’t? He asks and there’s irritation in his tone, but it’s not really for Sam.

The glow of the tip of the cigarette lights Sam’s features in drowning red and Dean finds himself mimicking the inhale, almost tasting the acrid sting in the back of his own throat.

-He’s not going to understand, Sam says and there’s a roughness to his voice that shivers through Dean.

Dean holds his gaze when Sam levels a long look at him. He has to think about that for a bit, try to work out which part of what is bothering Sam right now.

-You and me? Dean ventures after a while, because that’s the thing that was foremost on his own mind anyway.

Sam nods and Dean thinks, yeah, Jim’s going to connect the dots and he’s going to see whatever he sees and he’s going to think the same kinds of things that Bobby has thought, that dad’s thought. He’s going to be thinking in terms victims and hard times and runaways and lean on his own experiences with all that. Then there’s the added bonus of Sam having a little more on his plate than most of the people Jim deals with.

-He did something for me today that I have no idea how to repay. That’s already more help than I thought I would ever get, but in some ways that makes all this more complicated.

Dean can’t help the way his hackles go up at that.

-He’s not going to ask for anything in return, you know that, right?   
-If you say so, but Dean, he was alone with that thing for hours. I don’t know what kind of shit it told him.   
-Demons lie, Dean says.   
-I’m sure they do. And I’m sure they tell the truth when that can do more damage.

Dean is about to get up and go to him, just get a hand on Sam, make him see that it doesn’t matter, none of it matters to Dean. He knows what he signed up for, but then Sam kills the cigarette and comes back to bed. He sits down in the foot end, facing Dean. The distant expression on his face fades into something that looks a lot like desperate exhaustion.

-I can’t believe that’s over, Sam tells him and takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.

Dean grabs Sam’s foot, which just happens to be the closest thing to him, a sturdy grip around the kid’s ankle. He kind of wants to use that to drag him in closer again. Kiss him some more. He thinks he’s already addicted to that lingering taste in his mouth, something he thinks should be all in his head, but still… it’s like the thickest, darkest molasses coupled with a hint of burning firewood. He wonders if that taste would still be there under the sharpness of cigarette smoke on Sam’s tongue.

-You going to be able to sleep tonight? Dean asks.   
-I’m gonna try, Sam says and rubs at his face with both hands.

Dean draws circles with his thumb over Sam’s ankle bone.

-It’ll be alright, Dean tells him, hoping like hell that that’s at least a little bit true.  
-Nah, I’m pretty sure it’s all fucked, but that’s okay. I’m used to that, Sam tells him and gives him that dry, wry tilt of a smile that Dean likes so much.

In the morning Dean wakes up with the sharp curve of Sam’s spine fused to his side and tracks the light from the window for a second before getting up and dragging on some jeans and heading down into the kitchen.

Jim is just coming in though the backdoor wearing sweats and a t-shirt that promotes some marathon for some cause or another. Jim’s a runner, ironically. Used to always try to convince Dean of the benefit of running and prayers. He likes to do both at once, or so he’s told Dean many times. He’s sweaty but not even breathing hard. Jim’s got that whippet build, the sighthound intensity of someone who actually likes it, gets a high from it every time. They say good morning and Dean starts foraging for eggs and things in the fridge while Jim pours himself a glass of water.

-I prayed over your problem for a long time yesterday. And I prayed over it again on my run this morning, Jim tells him when his glass is empty.

Dean’s cracking eggs using a fork to fish out the little slimy bits that could have made an embryo and he knows they’re going to be getting right down to business, but he kind of wishes they could at least have had breakfast first.

-Yeah? Dean says because as comfortable as he is with the pastor, he still doesn’t really know what to say to something like that. He hasn’t prayed for anything other than the typical “oh, shit, oh, god, don’t let me die” kind of thing since he was five.   
-I would very much like to help. To do that I need to have a conversation with Sam, but I sense that he’s a little reluctant.

Dean almost laughs. It’s a close thing. Instead he shoots an amused glance at the pastor and Jim gives him a kind lopsided smile back.

-Don’t treat him like a lockbox you want in to and it’ll go better, Dean says. “And don’t talk about him when he’s not in the room. He’s not a problem for you to solve, okay? And I’ll tell you the same thing I told Bobby. Kid’s smarter than you think, so don’t insult his intelligence. That just pisses him off.”

Jim just looks at him, evaluating that. Dean gets on with the business of making breakfast and tries not to think about how hard won some of that knowledge was for him. They’re just companionably sharing space when Sam walks in soft-footed enough to be completely silent. He nods a greeting at the sweaty pastor and seems to be scenting the air. Dean knows that look.

-Coffee? He asks and Sam nods vigorously. “Maker’s over there.”

Sam moves directly towards it and Dean can see the protests forming in Jim’s mouth. He’s a firm believer in a lot of things and one of them happens to be that coffee should only be drunk in moderation and only in the early afternoon and Dean’s never understood that even a little bit.

-Don’t even try getting between Sam and his coffee. It’s really not a battle you can win, trust me, Dean tells the pastor and watches as Pastor Jim watches Sam who is standing guard over the machine trying to will the coffee to drip faster.

It’s a pretty good start to the day, all in all. It could have been a lot worse. Pastor Jim has duties but promises to put aside some time for them before dinner. Sam actually slept through the night and doesn’t look like he’s about to crawl out of his skin the way he sometimes does when he knows he’s going to be stationary for a while. Dean knows Jim’s place like the back of his hand and he figures they can do some housekeeping of their own while they wait for the afternoon to roll around. It’s all very domestic. Sam’s not exactly relaxed, but he’s calm. Or, at least he seems pretty calm.

They did bully their way into Jim’s everyday earlier than they agreed on, so Dean figures they’re on Jim’s timetable now. The details surrounding how to take care of Malden’s remains have all been cleared through Jim’s connections, not that Sam seems all that interested in any of that. Dean doesn’t ask him about it and when the pastor mentions that Sam might want to pay his respects, Sam just shrugs and wanders off in that way he does when he doesn’t want to talk about it. Dean knows he shouldn’t find the slightly baffled look on Jim’s face funny, but it kind of is.

The thing about Pastor Jim is… well. As a person he’s kind, inquisitive and highly interactive. He’s one of those guys that give you a lot of eye contact and a lot of intense inquiry into your emotional welfare. He can take a joke and a brush-off and he’s good with people having snotty breakdowns against his chest, Dean knows, he’s seen all that. Pastor Jim doesn’t really know what to do with the kind of aloof self-contained air Sam carries himself with. Sam isn’t grieving. If Dean was to take a stab at working out the threads with Sam right now, he’d say the kid’s probably relieved, a little guilty about that relief, a little sad that it came to this and … pissed off. Mostly that last one is the base note of Sam’s emotional backdrop anyway, so it’s not a big leap. It’s going to take Jim a while to work out how to deal with Sam.

Sam snoops out the library in less than no time at all. He’s reading titles and occasionally taking something off a shelf to just flip through it when Dean walks in on him. Sam gives him one of those quick scan looks and goes back to the tome he’s holding.

-He’s got a locked cupboard somewhere doesn’t he? Sam asks absentmindedly.   
-You mean somewhere he keeps all the good stuff? Yeah. More like separate library, though.   
-This is all theology and psychology and … gardening. And thrillers.   
-Public space. The normals don’t need to know about all the scary.   
-I figured. Maslow’s hierarchy won’t scare anyone. Or, it might. If they never make it past the base of the pyramid, I don’t know.   
-You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?   
-You get a lot of mileage out of that stupid-but-pretty thing, don’t you?   
-Ah, you think I’m pretty, Dean answers and bats his lashes at Sam.

Sam’s restless. It’s all there in the way he prowls the room, quiet and contained. He wants to be doing something. Dean can’t blame him. They got all the way to here and now they have to sit around until they’re more convenient for Jim. It’s not really the way the two of them do things.

-You want to do something? Dean asks.

He doesn’t think he gave that much tone, but Sam’s expression still goes sly and heated.

-Like what?

And with that expression Dean kind of wants to say “go somewhere private” or “come over here” or… oh, he has a whole big barrel of things to chose from. That’s not actually what he meant, though.

-Burn off some energy. Go for a run. Spar a little. Something, Dean clarifies.

So that’s what they wind up doing. They go for a run and Dean keeps them on a different track from the one he knows the pastor uses, because that would mean a lot of awkward hellos and then they take it out into the backyard and spend a long time putting bruises on each other that are a lot less fun than what they could have been if Dean had taken Sam up on the promise in his eyes earlier.

Sam is no less of a dirty fighter than he was with that, so he manages to get Dean with a flat-handed shot to the head that literally has his ears ringing. There are a couple of seconds there where they’re actually fighting for real and that’s Dean’s fault. He gets a little fuzzy and disoriented and that means his hindbrain takes over. The problem with that is that his hindbrain is a trained fucking killer and he has Sam on his stomach, knee to his spine and one arm twisted so high up between his shoulder blades that Dean can see the clear delineation of the scapula pulling against the skin like a wing ready to be broken. Sam is too winded to even tap out for the few seconds it takes Dean to pull himself together enough to remember that this isn’t to the death and Sam isn’t that kind of threat. He gets off Sam while Sam just lays there wheezing.

Dean’s about to apologize when Sam turns over, spits to the side and gives Dean one of those wild, vicious smiles that mean he’s enjoying this is ways that have everything to do with the brutal physicality of what they’re doing. Instead of getting angry, or pissy, or losing his head he hooks a foot around Dean’s calf and brings him crashing down on his knees before tumbling them into a scrabbling, grappling half-wrestling match, half to-the-mat in close fight. It’s glorious.

Dean still outweighs Sam. He still has more skill and better training, but Sam is eel-slick under him, twisting and bucking and writhing and biting at Dean’s ears, the little bitch. When he fights like this he fights because he enjoys it, because he trusts Dean to not really hurt him. He fights like the pounding of his blood and the throb of bruises is the whole point. Sam fights the way he fucks, Dean thinks as he gets another mouthful of grass and Sam twists his fingers almost out of alignment to get out of the grip Dean has on his shirt. Sam is either endlessly cool and in control or wild and running on blind instinct and the heady enjoyment of the moment. That’s why Dean’s not surprised at the bubble of laughter hiding under the heaving breaths of exertion, or the way Sam’s eyes are lit bright and endlessly dangerously beautiful.

And that’s when Sam bites him again, gnawing remorselessly on his earlobe.

Dean’s still cursing at Sam when he looks over and sees the pastor watching them from the backdoor with a faintly puzzled look on his face.


	47. Sub Rosa

Dean’s perched on the edge of Pastor Jim’s desk thinking about the configuration of bodies in a room and the fact that even when he knows that you can’t expect someone like Sam to do what you expect him to do, he still manages to not do what you expect him to do in ways you can’t expect. Kid makes his head spin, sometimes. Lots of times. Well. Pretty much all the time, to be really blatantly honest about it. And that’s when Dean’s kind of knows what he’s got himself into.

Pastor Jim is currently looking at Sam with something like admiration. There’s more there, like befuddlement and just the general delight of being called on all the things he’s an expert on. A slow sense of caution has been working itself to the surface too. Dean told him to expect intelligence, and Dean’s sure Jim heard him, but no matter how carefully you listen to something like that, you look at Sam and you think “just a kid”. You see Sam with grass stains on his jeans and scrapes on his elbows and you think you get it, you think “oh, so that’s how it is”. You see the careful way he eats and moves in someone else’s space and you think you got him all figured out. You let him con you with that air of wounded innocence and you think he’s just like every other stray you’ve ever met.

And you’re mostly wrong about all of it.

Honestly? Dean had been expecting this to be like one of those talks he used to have with Jim when he was younger. They’d go in the study and Jim would sit there, patient and kind and pour his caring into it, just placidly letting you get to the point yourself, never asking your story, but coaxing it out of you slowly and patiently. Dean had kind of imagined Sam’s closed off replies and a gradual thawing out and then he kind of figured that Sam and Jim would find common ground.

So, of course, that’s not what happens.

Pastor Jim invited them into his private study, the one at the back of the house that actually has a lock on the door. Sam had walked in carrying his laptop and that thick leather-bound notebook that Dean bought for him some months back and sat himself down in the comfortable chair by the small table at the window and started setting everything up. Jim had looked at him, slightly surprised and then gave Dean a glance as if to ask if he knew what all this was about and Dean had shrugged, because he knows the kid has his own method of working through things and it’s best to just let him get there in his own way. Dean watched Sam visibly marshal his thoughts before turning to Jim and giving his opening gambit.

-You said that thing about influence and I’ve been thinking along the same lines, Sam told them.

And then he preceded to blow both Dean and Jim the fuck away with the sheer amount of work he’s already done. Dean’s still reeling. Jim’s looking like he’s found a long lost research partner of absurd quality and Sam isn’t even done yet. Sam is still laying things out in clear lines following an insane kind of logic so sharp that Dean actually thinks his dad should be here for it. He thinks that for about a second and then he thinks what an epically bad idea that would be. Not only because Sam is actually, probably smarter than John, but he’s been looking into things that John would skin him for.

Sam has taken all the research that John and Bobby forwarded and worked through it in a way that none of them would ever have thought of, not only because it’s about kids with some kind of mojo, but because Sam is so incredibly coldblooded about it. None of them could ever have cut through it like this because, and Dean realizes this with a kind of slowly dawning horror, they’re all so emotionally invested that they won’t even entertain the notion of thinking about some of the logical leaps Sam has made. And Sam’s the one who should be compromised, Dean thinks. A lot of this is actually about Sam, about the things that have happened to him and how it all affects him.

Dean doesn’t like it, not in the least, but he can’t deny that Sam is probably right about some things. Like the fact that all these kids have been chosen for a reason. And the fact that they all seem to have been haunted at an early age. There’s a lot of tragedy, a lot of house fires, a lot of dead mothers and absent guardians and just… Dean’s been gritting his teeth so hard on and off that he’s getting a headache. Sam just lays it all out like an autopsy. Here’s the cancer. Here’s the cut that killed. Here’s the negative influence at work.

And that’s not nearly all of it.

There’s the very disturbing fact that these kids are all about the same age, so there’s an actual timeline and an age group. And Dean knew that, he did. He just didn’t think about it beyond that. He took it at face value. Sam hasn’t.

-The thing behind all this is gaslighting everyone involved, Sam says, coolly. “And that starts with the mothers.”

Dean has to leave the room for a little while there and go sit on the back porch. He just needs to get his own shit in order. He just needs five minutes to himself. That’s all.

Sam is amazingly sharp and so smart it hurts to look at him and he’s been … he’s been working on this the whole time. He’s been spending every moment he’s not with Dean, or Dean’s not paying attention, unraveling this thing that’s been hanging over Dean’s head like a sword of Damocles his whole fucking life. And Dean never saw it. He never saw a single indication that this is what Sam’s been doing all along when Dean thought he was just surfing the web for porn or something.

Dean feels miserably stupid that he could miss something this big, but he’s not really surprised. That’s the worst thing. All Dean’s talk, all his fucking hard talk about how he could help and what he could do for Sam and Sam is still going it alone, every damned inch of it.

And Dean can’t deny that that’s probably the smart thing to do, either, because fuck knows, Dean’s useless. It hits home just how useless he is when he has to leave the room just because Sam brought up the mothers. Dean kind of wanted to punch him for that. Maybe even worse because the way Sam laid it out, the way it all looked like they must be involved, the way he said to Pastor Jim that there are numerous legends and stories about mothers making deals involving their children… It hurt because it rang true in that indefinable way that Dean always recognizes when he hears it, that gut sense, the thing that he always listens to when he’s working. Fuck.

Dean figures Sam must have known just how he would react to that. He figures Sam knows that’s why the research dad and Bobby sent doesn’t add up, because John would definitely not want to hear it. Dad’s pretty much sainted Mary by now, if he hadn’t already done that before he married her. Dad talks about her, when he talks about her at all, like she’s something out of the kind of fable that has men slaying dragons.

Dean gets back up and goes back in. Sam levels a long look at him when he comes back into the study and settles on a hardback closer to him, closer to all those notes and thoughts and things that Dean doesn’t want to talk about. The Pastor has cracked open the door to his inner-inner sanctum, the one with all the books, so he currently has his back to them.

-Did I ever tell you why I don’t hunt with my dad anymore? Dean asks.   
-Not in so many words, Sam says and he sounds wary.   
-I don’t hunt with my dad anymore because he’s a crusader. He’s spent the last twenty years going after something he can’t catch and even if he catches it, he doesn’t know how to kill it.

Sam just looks at him, waiting for the rest of it.

-I told dad that I would do whatever it takes to find a way to kill that thing. Demon, we think, yeah? So, like with all demons you got to find a weakness, something to exploit and then track it down and exorcise it, kill it, lock it away, something. Dad is going after something he can’t track and can’t kill if he gets to it. And he doesn’t care.

Sam is still looking at him, eyes slowly softening into something more understanding and so terribly fucking sad that Dean kind of wants to hug him, even if that’s not what this is about.

-When I found out I was so pissed. I yelled at him. The first fucking rule is you never go after something you don’t at least have a working theory on how to get rid of. He’s been throwing himself after this thing for so long, he forgot that I don’t do suicide missions. And I told him “mom wouldn’t have wanted that”. I shouldn’t have done that, but I did.

Sam knows what Dean’s talking about, Dean can tell. In the short time they’ve been riding together they’ve done some pretty dangerous things and had some pretty horrific close calls, but they never intentionally walked into an impossible hunt with their eyes wide open, knowing they couldn’t win. That’s not the same as being adventurous, or reckless, or just that little bit crazy that you have to be to be able to do the job. That’s more like actively going out pulling on trouble’s braids, looking for death. And when Sam and Dean came up against something too big for them, they ran. Because that’s what you do when you want to live. You run like the devil takes the hindmost, because in their lives he just might.

-You got to understand, my dad’s never beat on me, Dean tells Sam. “Not with malicious intent, not like he wanted to hurt me. I looked in his eyes and there was nothing there I recognized. In that moment, he hated me.”   
-Dean, that’s not…  
-No, it’s okay. I understand why he is the way he is. But I… I won’t watch him do that. I won’t watch my father kill himself over my mother’s memory the way he’s so clearly itching to do. He’s my family. I can’t. I told him that.

Sam reaches out, plucks at Dean’s sleeve just once, a small tug. Solidarity.

-Now you’re telling me that the kids are involved. That’s me, Sam. That’s me we’re talking about. I might be the reason.   
-No, Sam tells him in that very no-nonsense tone that means Dean should shut the hell up. “Even if, and I’m not saying that’s the way it is, but even if the deal was for you, it’s not your fault. You had nothing to do with it.”   
-You can’t know that.   
-You don’t talk about it much, and I sure as hell don’t understand anything about family, but, Dean, man, even if your mom did something, she must have had a really good reason. And that’s her call, okay? That’s her responsibility. That’s not something you can take on.   
-Still…  
-No. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t diminish anything she felt she had to do by making it all about something that it’s not. She’s was a grown-ass woman and she made her own choices.

Pastor Jim clears his throat discreetly to get their attention and Dean figures he’s got to let this go for now. He’s got to believe that Sam is right, at least about some of this. It all makes such terrible goddamned sense, though.

Dean’s been angry at his father for a lot of different reasons over the years. They’ve had minor disagreements and major blowouts and out and out fights about things, but he can’t remember ever having been so hopelessly, uselessly angry as he had been when he called dad on the fact that dad didn’t even have a plan for what was going to happen once he actually caught up with the thing that killed mom. Somehow he’s always managed to believe that John would have worked that out first, figured out that part of the plan first, because that’s what you do when you hunt. But it had come up in conversation that John might have a lead on a guy that knew a guy that might know something about a gun that could kill anything, just a rumor, a whisper, and Dean had asked what it was for. Then he had that terrible moment of clarity when the penny finally dropped and he understood that John had never had a plan at all. The idea of survival was a goddamned afterthought at best. Dean had thrown a fit that must have reached new heights judging by the way John had looked at him like he was stupid at the time. Right before he started looking at Dean like he wanted to throttle him.

It had been dad’s rule, actually. The one about never working with some noble idiot who didn’t have anything to go home to. It had been John who had told Dean never to partner with someone willing to self-destruct. Someone like that, dad had told him, someone with nothing to lose, they won’t care about you either.

Dean doesn’t want to think too much about that, because if he does he’s going to get angry. His father had more or less told him that Dean wasn’t enough to stay alive for. He’s sure John didn’t mean it that way, didn’t see it that way, but that’s what it all came down to. That’s why they had to go their separate ways. Dean has let John forward him hunts and keep him in the loop in his vague way, but he’s made it very clear that until John gets his head on straight Dean won’t be a part of that hunt.

Dean can just bet that John has been thinking something really stupid along the lines of how Dean’s grown up enough to take care of himself now and that makes all this okay, that makes what he wants to do something that Dean can live with, but it still isn’t. Dean’s never going to be okay with the kamikaze thing. It’s too fucking stupid for words and it’s not the way his old man should go out. If he has to go, it should at least not be that, some pointless tilting at windmills and running straight at the cliff edge in the least subtle suicidal act of fucking idiocy that he’s… yeah, okay, Dean gets a little angry. It’s the actual polar opposite of the shit talk he gets from dad about happily ever after when dad’s been drinking and both those things, both those endings, are equally bullshit to Dean’s mind.

-I think it more than likely that you’ve hit on something with the involvement of the mothers, Pastor Jim says putting a huge big book down in front of Sam.

Sam looks at the title and then at Jim.

-You really do have some very interesting literature in that sub rosa room of yours, Sam tells him with approval.   
-I’m a long time collector with a wide net of contacts, Jim agrees and smiles at them both.

Dean doesn’t even try to smile back, because he can’t even fake it right now. He looks at the text. It’s in Latin. Of course it is. He looks at Sam who is already turning pages, reading avidly. Because, of course he is. Dean bends his head and props his hands up against his forehead and speaks to the tabletop.

-Is it always the moms? He asks.

He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to think about all the times someone has told him he’s too good at something, like shooting or doing research or lopping the heads of things that are the size of a fucking bear in the dark woods. He doesn’t want to believe that has anything to do with anything that isn’t just the fact that he’s good at what he does. He doesn’t want to even tangentially entertain the thought that he’s another of those kids. A dud, clearly, but still enough to get his mom killed.

-Not always, Sam says gently.   
-But mostly.   
-Mostly.

Dean can hear pastor Jim sitting down. Oh, so this is going to be a sitting-down talk after all.

-I don’t know what you are thinking, Dean, but please believe me when I say there’s no evidence that this has anything to do with your mother’s death.

Dean’s known Pastor Jim for a long time. He’s gone to mass with him, listened to him give sermons, talk to parishioners, to the people at the church spaghetti social. He’s heard him convey his condolences and his well-wishes and his blessings. He knows when Jim is lying. When Dean raises his head to look Pastor Jim in the eyes he manages to catch a glimpse of Sam behind his big book. There’s an expression on Sam’s face that Dean knows only too well. He knows Jim is lying too. It’s not suspicion, it’s not a feeling or a hunch or anything as vague as that. Sam _knows_ Jim is lying. And Dean’s day gets just that little bit more complicated, more unbelievably difficult and unmanageable, because even with all the shit that’s been dumped on him today, there’s still more going on here.

-Yeah, whatever, Dean says and watches Sam watching Jim. “Look, just give me something to do. Not in Latin. Or ancient Sumerian.”

Sam knows something. The all-to-the-surface expression he’s wearing right now is one that Dean can read as “keep your peace”. Dean’s temper is a little frayed, a little tattered and unraveled. Whatever else is going on here it will have to wait until they’re alone. Jim fetches another book for Dean, in English, and hands it over with one of those kind gazes that Dean has seen him dole out like hard candy to the grieving. He’s not sure he likes that at all.

He doesn’t even know what they think they’re looking for. He doesn’t understand how any of this is going to help. What he does know is that it’s all connected. Sam and Dean and dad and Bobby and Pastor Jim and his mom. There’s more going on here that Dean can’t see. He’s sure of it. What had Sam said? “You’re going to hear some things you won’t like”. He wasn’t wrong about that.

Dean hates this feeling. He really does. He hates this knowledge that there are still secrets and lies and chess games and moves being made that he can sense but not really see. For some reason, right now, right here, in this room, he hates is more than usual, because there’s a threading suspicion weaving it’s way in to his thoughts that this sixth sense of his isn’t just something he’s developed over the years, but it might just be something he was born with. It’s not strong enough to be precognition, or aura reading or what-the-fuck ever. It might be something a little more than just intuition all the same.

What’s it all for? That’s the big question. All this exertion of influence, what’s the point of it? Dean’s pretty sure that if he asks Pastor Jim he’s going to get that talk about angels again, about how the angelic cadre is there to intercede at crucial times because the divine, whatever that might mean, doesn’t meddle directly. That would be too simple, too straightforward. The divine only meddles through intermediaries, because of that pesky free will thing. Dean’s paraphrasing, of course. Pastor Jim is a lot more elegant than that. More flowery in his descriptions, too. It would be all “divine intercession” and “through the grace of angels”, stuff like that. And if this is all a chess game, still a chess game, then there has to be another side to the board, so the black to the angels’ white would be the demons running around doing their thing. That’s about influence too, about pouring poison into anything clear and good and making people do unspeakable things. Or making them act on the unspeakable things they want to do anyway, more like. Dean’s a cynic, okay? He knows that a lot of what goes on in the heart of man is not exactly nice.

Maybe that’s all it is. Just a huge big game of chess. And they’re just pieces. And that spins off into thoughts about fate versus chance and the idea that free will can still upend the board. Dean thinks that he’d like to be a horse. On the board. If it’s a chess game. He’s never been good at chess, not really, but as a kid he would play with Bobby sometimes, and he’s always had an affinity for the unpredictable way the horse moves. He used to always choose black, too. He’s not sure he wants to make any kind of analogy there, because honestly, he mostly chose black because the Impala is black and horses were kind of the cars for knights back in the day.

Dean realizes he’s stopped reading and is just staring off into space at that point, brain working overtime. He heaves a sigh and looks over at Sam who is completely engrossed in the brick he’s reading. Sam has smudges of dirt on his neck and a long blade of grass woven into his hair. The light from the window is catching him oddly, making his cheekbones sharper and hiding his eyes. Instead of making him look like some endearing rascal, it just makes him seem feral, like a wild thing that has deigned to come sit and be civilized with a book. It makes Dean wonder which color Sam would chose for himself if they were to play a game. Oh, who is he kidding? Sam would be white, because white makes the first move and determines the strategy.


	48. Esoteric

A lot of theoretical discussions about any kind of paranormal phenomena gets esoteric really quickly. That’s always pissed Dean off. He can pretty much understand the reasons for it. It’s like with anything, someone claims dominion over ideas and makes it so they’re the only real expert on a topic and then go on to spin their theories in whatever way best suits their purpose. You’ve got your experts and then you’ve got your hacks. Sometimes those two categories are so close together they’re pretty much the same thing.

Dean has some preconceived notions that he has to battle with when trying to talk demons with a priest. It’s impossible to not get into the whole “higher power” and “dominion” and “ruling forces” thing. It’s just that … well, Dean doesn’t really believe in any of the things that Jim believes in. And more to the point, Dean has no real use for belief as such. Look, he’s seen things, okay? He’s witnessed things that are definitely off the charts fucking crazy and demons are the real deal, he can say that for sure.

He can also say, without a doubt, that the other side, the one everyone seems to automatically assume has to be there? He’s never seen that. Never heard of anyone who has. Dean secretly thinks that negative proof does not an angel cadre make, but he’s not going to say that to man who prays and worships for a living. Maybe what they think of as demons is just… something that exists. Something on another level, a parallel reality, something like that. Maybe they’re the bad intentions, ghosts gone wrong, dead people in some kind of extreme state. He doesn’t know. He has no idea what happens once you kick the bucket. He’s seen ghosts. He’s never seen one that went into the light turn around and come back and tell of all the nice things that happen after you die.

It’s not just him being a skeptic, this whole thing, it’s more that Dean’s seen so much proof of so many crazy, crazy things that he’s kind of given up on believing. He really doesn’t need any more than what he can witness with his own eyes. He doesn’t give a crap about the higher dimensions of all of it, either. He’s not in it for that. He’s in it for the little guy, the one almost getting eaten by monsters. The one that never did anything wrong and still has a poltergeist chucking their furniture around. Dean is just the guy taking out the trash. He doesn’t need to understand much more than that.

Of course this whole thing with him and Sam is … way above his pay grade. He has kind of made his peace with that. No matter how he looks at it, and he has been looking at it from all kinds of interesting angles lately, there’s something going on here. That vague fucking something that ties in with all the plans and schemes and futures and powers that he kind of doesn’t believe in, but still has to operate under. Dean doesn’t suffer from a dearth of evidence as much as a profusion. It’s all over everything.

He’s pretty much ready to be done with it, bundle Sam back in the car and get him the fuck out of Dodge.

Sam is … different. Sam loves theories. Dean can kind of understand that. He figures if something had been whispering to him in his dreams he would like to know what that is for too. Sam reads and researches and does things with all that knowledge that makes Dean feel like the idiot cousin. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, or a particularly comfortable one. Dean thinks it is in part the fact that their perspectives are so vastly different that makes the disparity so obvious. Sam’s one of those kids that must have driven everyone around him crazy just asking “why?”. If he had anyone to ask. Shit.

So Sam is doing okay at Jim’s for now. He’s got books. He’s got his laptop. Dean’s made sure he has his coffee. They’re sticking around for a little while. Dean’s been given the green light from Sam as far as him interacting with the pastor is concerned. Sam’s not entirely relaxed around Jim, but then he never really is with anyone, so that’s okay.

Being at Blue Earth means something different to Dean than being at Bobby’s. Singer Salvage has cars, which means a specific kind of work for Dean. Being at Jim’s has chores. It has grocery shopping and helping out in the community and being nice to people in a way that Dean’s never really had to bother with anywhere else. He’s been here enough over the years to know what Pastor Jim expects from him. He tries. He really does. At least when he’s got Sam with him he’s not going to try and sweet talk some girl into going for a drive with him after Sunday service. Not that Dean’s done that in years. He’s not stupid. He knows that’s not smart when people know your real name.

A couple of days in Dean’s been out running errands and can’t find either the kid or the pastor when he comes back to the rectory, so he goes looking. They’re at the church, sitting together on the steps. Dean came in through the side entrance that Jim usually uses, so they don’t know he’s there yet. Sam’s body language is curved, curled into himself, hunched over and Jim is sitting next to him, one hand kind of hovering, like he wants to put it on Sam’s shoulder, or back, but isn’t sure that would be welcome. Smart guy, Pastor Jim.

Churches always have strange acoustics. Noise travels, boosted by the open space. Dean doesn’t even have to get all that close to hear them. Oh, don’t even start, this is what Dean does, okay? He’s not even going to pretend to not eavesdrop. It’s in the fucking job description. So he stands in the shadows and waits for the words to filter to him.

-It is not that easy, Jim is saying.

Sam doesn’t answer. Dean thinks about Sam’s silences and something niggles at the back of his thoughts. Sam has a way of using his body and his words and his silences that has had Dean paying attention since the day they met. Dean shifts his feet a little and takes a closer look. Yeah, there’s something about Sam’s body language that reads as staged to him. He’s not sure exactly what it is he’s picking up, but Sam is working right now.

-You have the sight, right? And some other acquired talents beyond that. You’re telling me you can’t read me, Sam says and he’s not even looking at Jim, but Dean can see the way Jim is watching Sam.   
-I have had this happen before, Jim says and that gets him a quick flash of a glance from Sam, that speed reading thing Sam does.   
-Some other psychic? Sam asks.   
-Something like that, yes. I think it is like a resonance, for lack of a better term.  
-You mean we cancel each other out.   
-I don’t know. Perhaps. The odd thing is that I have had hints before, about Dean. Something would come into his path that would change everything for him, and for his father also. Now, since we met I can’t see anything for him at all. Or for John. It is … well, honestly, it is a little disquieting.   
-I get that a lot, Sam says, words fast and just a little bitter.   
-Oh, no, Sam, it doesn’t have to be a negative, Jim says and his hand comes back up, hovers again.

Sam’s shoulders pull in just a fraction tighter and Jim lowers his hand back down. Dean can’t help it, he smiles. Sam has a massive amount of back-off vibes on a good day. This is obviously not a good day.

-And all the shit I’ve been reading about seems to just make everyone uneasy. I get it. I’m the fucking dark horse.   
-I don’t believe that at all. You are an unknown, yes, but that does not mean you are in any way a dark horse.   
-Oh, please, Padre, don’t even bother. I brought a demon to your house. One that had a special interest in me.   
-We have no way of knowing what that means.   
-Nothing good, Sam tells Jim and now Sam’s tone is cold, flat and completely devoid of emotion.

Jim stays quiet for a long moment. He looks out over the gravel pathway that leads up to the church door. Sam is pushing. Even if Dean didn’t know him as well as he does, he would be able to tell that much. It’s in the body language, the tone and most of all the swearing, because that’s more cursing than Sam usually does and he’s picked up that the pastor doesn’t like it, uses that to goad him now.

-I have been a servant for a very long time. I have learned not to be hasty in my judgment. There’s a certain kind of arrogance that comes with believing that you are right. When I was a young man I had to be taught the kind of humility that counsels an open mind and patience. We are not always wise enough to see things the way they truly are. I can tell that you are an extraordinary young man. Very strong and very determined. This gift of mine … I try very hard not to use it as a crutch. That fact that I can’t read you doesn’t necessarily have to be sinister, Jim says.

All his words are kind and his intentions are good, Dean can tell. But he’s looking at the lines of Sam’s back, the shift in his spine, the way he’s sitting and Dean just knows Sam didn’t buy a word of that. They’re quiet for another long moment and then Pastor Jim finally seems to be done with this talk, very deliberately clapping a hand to Sam’s shoulder as he gets to his feet.

Dean watches Jim walk away and stands there, thinking about that little speech for a moment.

-He can’t read me, Sam says not even looking over his shoulder.

Well, that figures. Of course Sam picked up on him being there. Dean scuffs his boots a little as he walks up, letting Sam know he’s coming. He slumps down next to Sam and it’s like watching some intricate kind of refolding as Sam’s spine straightens out and his whole posture changes. Like a bird shaking out its wings.

-Well, you’re not a bunch of tea leaves, Dean tells the kid.

He gets a small grim grin for that.

-Your good friend the pastor is hiding something, Sam says.   
-Probably. Everybody does..   
-Yeah, but not everyone is in hip deep with your family, knows demonology and is a fucking psychic.   
-Anyone ever tell you you’re a suspicious bastard, Sammy? And don’t swear in church.

Sam’s grin goes wild for a flash of a second and Dean revels in that.

-Lots of people. Usually right before they screwed me over.   
-Point.

Dean wonders idly if the pastor knew he was in the church too. It’s not entirely unlikely. Jim doesn’t seem different to him. Maybe it’s this resonance thing. Maybe it’s the fact that Sam isn’t wrong, they did bring a demon. That’s like coming for a visit when you have a stomach flu. Unpleasant for everyone involved. Maybe it’s that Dean’s used to the way Jim keeps his own counsel.

-Best guess, what do you think? Dean asks.   
-Fucked if I know, Sam tells him calmly and gives Dean a look. “I don’t think we should hang around for too long though.”  
-You getting anything from all the research you’ve been doing? Dean asks.

And yeah, he’s been there for most of it, but he’s not sure what Sam was looking for in the first place, so it’s kind of hard to tell how the kid is putting it all together.

-Yeah, loads of fascinating stuff. Mostly, though, I kind of think that the dreams, the visions, all that? That’s probably something I was born with. The guy that shows up in my dreams is just interested.   
-Awh, you’ve got a suitor.   
-Like a dog has fleas, Sam tells him.

Dean smiles at him. Sammy’s something else.

-Come on, let’s go eat all the good pastors food and drink all his milk, Dean says levering himself up.   
-Yay, milk, Sam mutters and gets up too, dusting himself off kind of absentmindedly.   
-If you’re good there might even be cookies.

Sam gives him a look that clearly says “what are you, five?” and then there’s the hint of an afterthought along the lines of “… cookies”.

That night Sam rolls over and puts a hand on Dean’s stomach. His fingers are a little cold as they slide in under Dean’s t-shirt and that’s what wakes Dean up. It’s the middle of the night and Dean’s just used enough to having a body next to his in bed that he doesn’t snap and grab Sam’s wrist to break it. He goes from muzzy to wide awake between one breath and the next as Sam slides closer. Kid’s a menace. He really is.

They went to sleep late, still working through things and Dean’s a night owl anyway so it doesn’t bother him the way it does the pastor, who is very much an early bird kind of guy. Dean had been having some strange thoughts about how chaste it all seemed, crawling into bed with Sam and laying just close enough to feel him there, but not touching, not even sharing blankets. They lose all their distance in sleep, though, obviously. Dean’s eyes are open and he’s catching the engaging glitter of Sam’s gaze on him. There’s a question there. It’s one of those slow searching stretches of time that draws out a little and Dean must be saying yes with his breath and his body and his openly pounding heart because Sam pushes his touch a little higher before going lower.

This is how Sam asks, tonight.

Dean folds the arm closest to Sam up and in under the pillow, making room for Sam to come all the way hither if that’s what he wants. Sam’s fingers slide in a cool swirling pattern over Dean’s lower stomach, catching a little on hairs and mapping out the hem of his boxers. Dean wants to smile at him. Wants to kiss him. He’s been wanting to kiss Sam since last time, chase the smoke and molasses taste of him, tangle with his wily tongue and get so lost in it they have to fight for breath. The way Dean’s been wanting that is so intense it’s almost scary.

Sam props himself up on his side and slings one leg over Dean’s, knee and lower, staying out of his own way. He’s sleep-warm and lithe. He does that thing where he leans in and runs the tip of his nose over Dean’s neck and jaw and up over his ear, breath tickling out before he nuzzles into Dean’s hair. Dean can’t help but think it’s an animal thing, like scenting, something so profoundly different from the way people have usually approached him. And he likes it. Of course he does. It’s both more real somehow, and more delicate than you’d expect. It makes him want to respond in kind.

Dean’s not the type to think out his touches but he likes the idea of doing just that for Sam. He raises his free hand and runs just the tips of his fingers over Sam’s eyebrow and down one cheek. When he gets to that reluctant dangerous mouth of Sam’s he thumbs over the bottom lip, just a glide of motion back and forth a few times. Sam is watching him now, hand still, pressing into Dean’s skin. Dean’s not asking for more than just a kiss, he’s really not, but Sam’s eyes spark coal dark heat at him and Dean had no idea he could get that with just a few light touches. Dean smiles at him. Sam doesn’t smile back. Instead he leans in and bites at Dean’s chest, teeth blunted a little by the t-shirt. Dean’s hand is on the back of his head without much thought. He has to remind himself not to grab a fistful of dark hair.

He has to keep that in mind the whole time Sam works his way down Dean’s chest in a line of stinging nips that are a little too serious to be friendly. Sam’s reminder that this is not Dean’s show, maybe. Warnings in the form of mouth shaped bruises. Not that Dean minds. Then he has Sam’s head in his lap and his boxers are swiftly pulled halfway down his thighs and Sam is cradling the head of Dean’s cock in his mouth and running a ruining tongue around the glans. It’s middle-of-the-night slow and syrupy sweet and Dean’s more than willing to lose his mind quietly while running his fingers through Sam’s hair over and over.

Sam rocks against him, one hand holding on hard to Dean’s thigh, the other working between his own legs, all of this quiet and so precisely balanced between sweet and dirty it would be halfway to dreaming if Dean wasn’t so attuned to the noises Sam is making, the things his mouth is doing. Of course Sam is good at this. He’s good at it in a way that makes Dean think if he wanted it over in five seconds flat that would be easy for him. Dean would be easy for him. Is easy for him. Sam gives him a long, slow buildup, the wetness of his mouth forgiving now, generous. It makes his climax a warm dim rolling unfurling pleasure. It’s like realigning your spine after hard work, like sliding into a hot bath on a cold day. And Sam is right there with him, pressing his forehead into Dean’s thigh and sighing out his own release.

It feels more like comfort than anything else, this whole thing. And Sam, inexplicably, stays on his side with his head resting low on Dean’s stomach and Dean’s leg locked between his own, falling asleep like that, half on top of Dean, with Dean’s fingers buried deep in his hair. It’s not the kind of intimacy that Dean thinks he could handle from anyone else, Sam’s so close to everything vulnerable about him, and Dean doesn’t mean that in just the physical sense. Those are Sam’s ribs against his inner thigh. That is his heart beating against Dean. That’s Sam’s breath rushing over his stomach, his hip. Impossible, this whole thing, the way it’s good and so easy and so incredibly scary at the same time. Because… Dean could lose this. He could fuck this up. And he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens. 


	49. Loose Ends

It’s almost a week before Pastor Jim finally corners Dean in the study when Sam’s off doing Sam-type things. The weather is kind of grim, harsh winds and rain, so Dean has no idea what the kid is up to. The pastor is sitting in his comfortable armchair and Dean thinks he’s developed a sixth sense for when he’s going to get one of those talks that everyone seems to be so generous with around him these days. He figures this one is actually kind of overdue, so he plants himself at the desk, taking the uncomfortable chair, and gives Jim a go-ahead nod.

-We haven’t really had much of a chance to catch up properly, Jim tells him.  
-I know. It’s all demon gate crashing and ominous portents. Sorry about that, Dean says.

He knows he’s being flippant, but it’s not like he can put up a front for Pastor Jim who was there for him in his pimply youth. It’s still awkward, though.

-Look, I know the kid is a little intense to deal with, but you have to… Dean starts, but Jim stops him.  
-As interesting as I find Sam, I actually wanted to ask how you are.

Dean just looks at him for a long moment. Huh. For some reason this was the last thing on Dean’s mind.

-I’m fine, he says, mostly by reflex, because he is fine. Isn’t he? Sure he is. No broken bones, nothing else that needs mending. Just Sam and the thing with the demon.  
-Are you sure? Jim asks. “You’ve taken on a lot.”  
-I’m used to that, Dean tells him.

That’s not really true, though. Not exactly. Dean’s used to taking on a lot, yes, but he’s not used to taking on something as big as this and he’s never just taken on another person either. Dean gives Jim a moment, studies him carefully. He looks the same as always, calm and well put together. Jim’s not exactly guileless, but there’s an air of quiet patience about him. Dean’s always seen him like that, composed and straightforward.

-And your father? Jim asks.  
-What about him? Dean counters.

Jim looks at him and gives him the kind of small, quirked smile that John seems to inspire a lot of the time. They both know what John Winchester at full force can be like. And Jim’s one of the few people that knows the real story, why Dean won’t play along with the big game.

-He’s doing alright, Dean says. “Doesn’t like this new development one bit. Still won’t bend. Stubborn cuss. You know that even better than me.”  
-Well, far be if from me to talk of apples and trees and how far they fall and all that, Jim says and the smile broadens a little.  
-You know how it is, Dean tells him.

They’ve been over this. They’ve talked this out. Dean and John. Dean and Jim. Dean and Bobby. Hell, he thinks it’s all he can do some days to not take out an add in the goddamned paper. It’s ridiculous, anyway, the way these guys like to shuffle the responsibility around and still claim to carry it all themselves. Dean’s seen Pastor Murphy drink his father under the table. He’s seen Bobby sew John up after hunts. He’s seen the way they work together, the old loyalties laid down there, so deep and so profound that not a lot could ever be seen as unforgivable. Dean knows they care for each other and for him. He’s not sure what this conversation is supposed to do, really, but he figures he owes Jim something right now. Sam’s not wrong about the whole checks-and-balances thing.

-Have you tried discussing this with him? Jim asks.  
-You know I have, Dean answers.

And yeah, so, Dean’s not okay when it comes to that. He’s not. Jim is still unfailingly unflappable, though.

-I have worried about your father for a long time. The kind of redemption he seeks is … harsh. And we’ve argued, of course.

Jim says all this with some kind of wry, amused affection, like arguing with John is the only way to communicate with the man. Which it kind of can be. Dean doesn’t really have much to say to that so he just hums, looks out the window, fights the urge to fidget with the papers on the desk.

-I’m not trying to… Jim starts, but cuts himself off and thinks about it instead, rephrasing what he wants to say. “It seems to me that you’re focusing so hard on helping Sam right now that it might be clouding your judgment.”  
-Clouding my judgment, Dean repeats, voice flat.  
-Not about the boy, I’m not saying that. I know that you went to Singer and I know that this is not a little thing that has been happening here. That is why I wanted to talk to you, make sure you know that there is help to be had if you need it.

Dean thinks this talk is still about Sam, no matter what the pastor is saying. He’s being very nice about it, but it’s the same talk Dean’s been getting since he picked Sam up by the roadside.

-When Sam got into your books he started piecing together things that no one else seems to have even thought to look at. That alone is enough for me to know why I should be doing this. You know what dad’s like. You know what he’s capable of. Do you really think for even just a second that that’s all there is to it? That dad just missed the fact that all this is about family?

Jim gives him a long, searching look, and there’s something like pity at the base of it. Dean finds that he’s curled himself up, crossed his arms over his chest. He doesn’t like the way that makes him feel, like he’s defending himself. Like he needs to.

-No, I think John knows, Jim says and there’s commiseration there, that endless well of empathy that Jim always dips into in tense moments.  
-That means there’s something about this that’s about me, too. You get that, right? You get that mom might have… that it might be all because of me, Dean tells him and the strain of it comes through in his voice, a tense misery that he can’t control.

There’s a noise in the direction of the kitchen, the scuff of footsteps. Sam. Dean’s gaze goes in that direction immediately and Jim seems a little startled, but he quickly reins it in.

-You should talk to your father, Jim tells him.  
-You don’t think I tried? Dean shoots back. “I have. I tried. A lot.”

Jim never gets to answer that, because Sam walks into the study, looking from Dean to Jim and back again before walking over and perching on the edge of the desk, one knee knocking into Dean’s shoulder. Jim looks up at Sam with the beginning of a pleasant smile forming. It doesn’t really last once he actually makes eye contact, though, and Dean turns his head and catches the look on Sam’s face. Sam’s expression is neutral, but his gaze has that sharp as a scalpel assessing quality to it. It’s not challenging. It takes Dean a beat to figure out what he’s actually seeing there and when it clicks he just marvels at the idea. Sam is being protective of him. Even the way he’s sitting is shielding.

Later that night Sam is on the bed with his notebook and his laptop, and yeah, it’s Sam’s laptop now, Dean’s given up on even pretending otherwise. He’s been compiling data for about a week and Dean’s not sure what any of it means, but it’s not like one of those quick solve puzzles, so it’s not going to fall into place and just come together in some big reveal. Sam isn’t telling Dean everything he’s figured out, Dean’s sure of it. He’s holding on to something, like he always is, but that’s okay. This is Sam’s show.

-I think we’re about done here, Sam says in that drifting tone that means he’s thinking about things far out of reach.  
-Yeah? Dean asks and puts down the old car magazine he’s been leafing through.  
-Yeah.

One syllable, so much meaning packed into it.

-Getting restless? Dean asks.

And it’s odd, because Dean kind of figured once the thing tracking Sam was out of the picture Sam would be more open to staying in one place for a while. Maybe he’s got that all wrong. Maybe Sam’s always been restless.

-I like this room, Sam says. “I like your friend. I like his library.”  
-You like my car better, Dean says, voice sliding towards something like seduction. “You like _me_ better.”

Sam’s eyes say yes to both those things. His mouth stays shut, though.

-One more day? Dean asks.  
-If you want, Sam agrees.  
-Loose ends, Dean explains.  
-Can’t have that, Sam concedes easily.

One more day. Loose ends. Dean’s not entirely sure what kind of loose end he’s got, really. He just knows that talk in the study with Jim wasn’t really over when Sam walked in. He’s been thinking about the fact that those three men in his life, those three great graying giants that have taught him so much, that have always seemed bigger than life, are all a little more flawed than he realized. It’s only now when he’s seen them through the sharpening lens of Sam’s focus that they have become more human, somehow.

Dean waits until lunch the next day to tell Jim that they’re thinking about taking off, that Sam’s more or less done with the research for now. They’ve got things they could be doing. Hunting maybe. Maybe just driving around for a while to see what that’s like for Sam when he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder the whole time. Dean thinks they could do some sightseeing. Maybe. He doesn’t know what Sam wants to do, where he wants to go, but that doesn’t matter so much. Dean thinks they can figure that out as they go along.

Jim looks a little disappointed, but then he’s always had that look on his face when Dean gets ready to pack up and leave. Dean’s never really felt easy about the leaving. It’s always been uncomfortable, that moment when you have to close the door, drive away. He doesn’t like the sentimentality of it, the way it can be made to mean too much. It’s not like he won’t be back, it’s not like he’s going to drop out of contact, or completely get lost out there, but it always feels like Pastor Jim thinks he might never see Dean again and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know how to translate it into something that doesn’t feel kind of unfair.

After dinner they do what Jim calls a “proper sit-down”. Sam graciously doesn’t say anything about it, just goes along with this little ritual. Jim plants himself in his chair and asks them about their plans. Dean keeps it pretty vague, watches Sam to see if he’s got anything to add, but Sam just nods along and puts on his best good-boy persona, the one that makes Dean think of armchair psychology and the quality of genius it must have taken for Sam to just stay alive and in one piece for as long as he managed all alone.

It makes Dean want to mess him up.

Not like … maliciously. But, just. Yeah. Grab on to Sam and muss up his hair and pull at his clothes, rumple him. Take him out back and rub grass stains on his jeans, dirt on his face. It makes Dean want to coax the wild feral gleam back into his eyes and goad him into some spectacular feat of cold viciousness, push him into cursing. Sam being pleasant rings false to Dean, because he knows what lies beneath that surface, he knows how deliberate it is. That’s not Dean’s Sam. That’s the Sam that everyone with good intentions gets. Dean doesn’t think his intentions are bad, exactly, but they’re not all that good either. At least not that kind of good that’s fit for the parlor.

Pastor Jim goes into the kitchen to make them hot cocoa. Jim’s been doing that every night they’ve stayed here. Dean thinks about the fact that it took a week for Sam to even think about drinking it. He doesn’t know half of the kid’s triggers, couldn’t even begin to guess what it was that made Sam wary of drinking an innocuous mug of hot cocoa with little marshmallows floating on top. All he knows is that those first few nights Sam took his own mug back into the kitchen and emptied it out under the pretense of doing the dishes like a good little house guest.

The cocoa is just the right blend of bitter chocolate and sweetened milk. It’s something Dean remembers Jim doing all the way back to when Dean was still a kid. Dean has memories of hot cocoa after long drives, after working out in the garden, after shoveling snow and helping with chores. He has memories of drinking the stuff when he was shocky from blood loss and the things that he’d seen, from the time when John had almost got in a car accident on the drive there, from the time he had a broken bone in his foot. He doesn’t think anything of it until he feels suddenly, abruptly exhausted after finishing another swallow.

Dean tries. He really does, but he’s having trouble keeping his head up and the mug is tilting in his hand, almost spilling the dregs onto his jeans. He’s got his eyes open just enough to see that Sam is listing to the side, fighting to stay upright and Pastor Jim is walking towards Dean with that same sympathetic expression on his face, that same half smile that he’s been giving Dean all night.

-It’s okay, Dean, Jim says. “It’s all going to be okay.”

And that’s the last thing Dean remembers before blacking out.

Anesthesia dreams.

Drug dreams.

_Dark. Dark and then fire. All that light and all that terrible stench of things that aren’t meant to be burning going up in toxic smoke. Dean’s been here before. He’s seen the heavens lit like this, from underneath, flames licking upwards. And he’s so heavy, he’s so terrified and his legs are working so hard. His feet are cold and his arms are heavy. Then there’s a door and everything is different and his arms are light, light and he could almost float away from it, like he could fly straight into the sky._

When he comes to he’s on a cot with a scratchy army blanket spread over him. He’s got that muzzy head and blurred sense of time and the distinct nausea that comes from having been heavily sedated. Panic wheels around in him, completely unchecked for a second because he doesn’t know where he is, he can’t remember how he got here. Not a hospital. Not a cell. And not alone. He’s not, he’s not, he can’t be. Dean groans and tries to turn on his side.

-Welcome back, a scratchy voice says somewhere to his left.

Dean turns his head and it’s slow going, it weighs a ton, it’s filled with gauze and lead and dirty cotton and bad dreams.

Sam is sitting up, back to the wall. He’s got a sleeping bag piled over his legs and he’s leaning his head back, eyes slitted and a blank expression on his face, tinged with fatigue.

-Motherfucker, Dean bites out, his voice lacking the energy to make it more than mostly just a distressed croak.  
-Your pastor’s an interesting man, Sam tells him.  
-The fuck…? Dean says.  
-My thoughts exactly, Sam informs him.

It takes a minute for Dean to shuffle upright, much as he can. It takes another little while for him to be able to see straight, think straight, even begin to try and figure out what the fresh hell is going on. He doesn’t try to stand just yet, knows that would be a bad idea, because his muscles still feel rubbery.

-You can calm down, Sam tells him, and Sam is actually unreasonably calm himself right now.

Dean doesn’t like it. He can’t say it isn’t welcome, one of them should be calm and Dean’s freaking the fuck out right now, so it’s a good thing, but it’s still annoying. Especially when Dean’s head still feels full of wobbly things and jelly. His stomach rolls over and for a second he thinks he’s going to be sick, but he manages to swallow it back down. For some reason it feels really important that he make it over to where Sam is sitting. Sam watches him with steady eyes as he totters over and slides down next to him, elbow bumping into Sam’s shoulder on the way. He’s listing before he’s even properly planted, Sam warm next to him and real. Real and alive and what the fuck is this? What the fuck is going on?

-I don’t think the pastor’s got bad intentions, exactly, Sam says.  
-Why the fuck not? Dean asks, closing his eyes in some hopeless bid that it will make the nausea lessen.  
-‘Cause he locked us in the gun room, Sam says and there’s a little amusement there. “That would be a really bad idea if he has bad intentions.”

And … yes. Yes, it would. Locking them up in the armory if there are bad intentions involved would be the mother of all bad ideas.

-He could have just asked, Dean says.  
-For some reason that doesn’t seem to have occurred to him.  
-Fucking cocoa Kool-Aid, what the hell, Dean grouses.  
-Wow. Benzos aren’t your friend, huh? Sam says and lets Dean rest his head on Sam’s bony shoulder.

Dean groans out a kind of sigh and grumble that sounds animal and deeply disgruntled. That’s how he feels too. Deeply, deeply disgruntled.

They just sit there for a while.

Sam is calm, so calm and relaxed it freaks Dean out at first, but then he thinks about it.

They’re in the basement of a church with a lock on the door in a room that is literally filled floor to ceiling and wall to wall with weaponry. Guns, knives, ammo, machetes. Ingredients for spells and more salt and iron than you could shake a stick at. They’re about as safe as they can get in some very strange and specific ways.

And that’s when Dean cracks and starts laughing. It transfers into Sam by osmosis, probably, the shaking of Dean’s body and his amusement and the sheer unadulterated absurdity of their situation, apart and together, and Sam is laughing with him, a high, joyous and lovely sound that rings through the space, twines with Dean’s laughter and sends it spiraling. Yeah, they’re both so incredibly fucked up that this is just another Wednesday for them, complete with chocolate flavored roofies and the casual betrayal at the hands of an old friend.

Whatever happens next is bound to be interesting, but that’s okay. Dean’s slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders and they’re leaning against each other, loose and relaxed and shaking off the last of the effects of the drugs. If there are bad intentions in the works, if someone is coming for the two of them, they’d better be well armed and armored.

 


	50. Reasons

They play I-Spy. It’s really surprising how many things they can find that start with an “m”.

Sam quotes some dialogue from Boondock Saints in a truly horrendous Irish accent. Not that Boston-Irish is all that pretty, but still.

They laugh like hyenas at some of both of those things.

The thing about being held captive, imprisoned and incarcerated, is that once you get past that initial torrential panic it’s just mostly mind numbingly boring. It’s better when there’s two of them, sure, but it’s still dull, dull, dull.

Dean’s done this before. Sam’s definitely done this before. They’ve done it together before. They’re experienced at this. One of the things that you really shouldn’t be doing in a situation like this is speculate too much about what’s coming next. You can’t help doing that anyway, because that’s just how the brain works, but like Sam pointed out, if the intentions are truly bad you don’t lock someone up with access to tremendous amounts of weapons. Dean’s kind of tempted to arm himself anyway. Habit.

Dean’s nausea has faded. He’s getting hungry now.

And he’s pissed off.

He has cause.

One of the things about all this that is really grating on Dean’s nerves is that everyone has reasons for why they’re acting the way they are. He’s been forced to accept that over and over with this whole thing and he’s been really pretty gracious about it, but it’s been building over time and Dean’s feeling more than full up on other peoples reasons. He’s sure that if he’d gotten the chance to ask that mass murdering psycho Sam took down why he did the things he did, why he build ashtrays out of peoples skulls and kept bits of them in the freezer, he would have had a lot of reasons too.

-Not much longer, now, Sam states.   
-You sound sure, Dean answers.   
-Yeah, well. No bucket, Sam says, shrugging.

And, of course he’s right. The good Pastor would have left them a bucket. There’s a grim kind of practicality to the way Sam thinks that can be more than a little unnerving at times. Dean doesn’t want to dwell on it.

-You know who’s more than likely going to be coming through the door, right? Sam asks.   
-Yeah, I know. I won’t do the whole Nicholson-thing.   
-Good to know considering he was a axe-wielding nut job.

Dean just gives Sam a look. He’s not going to say anything, it’s too fucking easy to take potshots like that. Sam smirks at him anyway, like he’s way ahead of Dean.

-The question is, though, are they coming for both of us, or just me? Sam muses out loud.   
-If it was just you I think I’d be on the other side of that door.   
-Not so sure about that. I don’t think they trust you to stay there.

Dean keeps looking at the kid. Sam’s got his little mischievous grin going and Dean has always liked that more than what is probably safe or sane.

-Not wrong of them, Dean concedes and feels kind of … shy. Like an asshole. He’s not a fourteen year old girl, what the hell.

Sam just pushes his shoulder into Dean, knocking into him all friendly and solid. Dean pushes back and then they’re laughing again. They’re probably a little too giddy, but it’s been a weird couple of days. Come to think of it, it’s been a weird couple of months.

Dean has been trying to review how Jim’s been acting since they got here and he’s been thinking about what’s been said and done and the thing is, if it hadn’t come down to this, to sedatives and basements, he wouldn’t really have noticed anything different. That’s like not seeing a huge big sink hole opening up in the road just ahead of you. He’s been blindsided. He’s man enough to admit it. Jim was just the same as always. Maybe a little more distant than Dean’s used to, but he thought, and he still thinks, that’s more to do with Sam’s presence than anything else.

Dean’s back to laying on the cot, one booted foot on the ground, staring at the ceiling when there’s noise outside. The stutter of steps and a low drone of voices and then the inevitable fumble at the lock. Sam is sitting exactly opposite the door with a shotgun braced over his knees. He’s got salt, so it won’t kill anyone, but it will sting a bit if the kid loses his temper. Dean doesn’t raise his head, redirect his gaze or even bother straightening up when the door slowly creaks open. He hears Sam rack the shotgun and he doesn’t think it’s all for show, but it’s mostly just to express displeasure. Armed and armed with intent, Sammy, and that’s fair enough, Dean thinks.

-Hey, dad, Dean says without looking.   
-Son, John says.

There’s a long pause.

-Sam, do you maybe want to put that down? John asks.

His voice is steady and calm, but that doesn’t really mean anything. Dean tilts his head back at an angle to get a look at the kid. Sam’s giving his best blank mask expression. Dean doesn’t smile. He wants to, though. There’s a pretty long and kind of uncomfortable moment and then there’s the scuffle of someone changing their stance.

-Dean, could you ask Sam to lower the shotgun? Jim says in his best placatory voice.

Dean slowly sits up and gets a good look at the two men crowded together at the door.

-You seem to be under the impression I can tell Sam what to do, Dean says.   
-Dean, this really isn’t… Jim starts, but Dean cuts him off.   
-And considering the fact that you just drugged us and locked us in a goddamned basement I think Sam’s allowed to be a little spooked right now. And a little ticked off.   
-Dean, John starts but Dean’s on a roll now so he shuts him up too.   
-And the only reason I’m not pointing a gun at your heads is because I’m willing to give you both the benefit of the doubt. He doesn’t really owe you that.

Neither John nor Jim say anything for another long moment and Dean can see the way the restless irritation starts building in John. It’s there in the way he’s angled his body to give less of a center mass target. It’s there in the way he’s clenching his fist.

-Here’s what’s going to happen, Sam says from his spot, voice low and soft and so very controlled. “You’re both going to go back in the house. Leave the doors open and unlocked. Go and sit in the kitchen. Me and Dean will follow when we’re good and ready.”

Dean knows that both the men at the door want to protest. He can predict, though, with some accuracy that Jim will be the one to agree and take John’s elbow in a gentle grip and steer him away.

-How do we know you’re not going to make a break for it? John asks with some of that ever-present belligerence bubbling under his cool tone.

Dean sees the staring match starting to brew between John and Sam.

-You don’t, Dean tells his father.

That brings John’s gaze to him and there’s such an aching sadness in his eyes for just a split second that Dean almost feels bad for him. It doesn’t last beyond the grip Jim takes on John’s elbow, though, and Dean’s just abstractedly pleased that he had that one figured. Feels like he’s on loose sand with everyone he knows these days, so any little thing that conforms to his ideas of them is good.

Sam and him listen to the retreating footsteps. Neither of them move, though, not putting it past the older, more experienced hunters to try and overwhelm them, or lay an ambush of some kind. Roughly ten minutes of silence go by before Dean gets to his feet and heads for the door, Sam on his heels with the shotgun still up and swiveling. It’s kind of ass-backwards the way John and Jim went about that.

Once they’re back in the house Dean heads straight for the upstairs bathroom. He needs to piss like a race horse and Sam is right behind him, patiently waiting right outside the door. Sam takes the shotty in to the bathroom with him. Dean doesn’t begrudge him that in the least. Dean’s armed too, he’s just not waving his around.

When Sam comes out Dean stops him with a hand to his chest. Sam looks up at him, game face already on, mind in other places, grip on the shotgun steady. Dean leans their foreheads together for five seconds. He doesn’t really know what to say at this point, because they’ve been over and over this for hours already, nothing much else to do locked in a basement. He’s already promised Sam at least three nights of sleeping under the stars to make up for having to wake up under a building. Again. Then Sam pulls back and gives him the decisive nod of someone who knows where they’re going and why. Dean’s glad at least one of them feels that way.

He lets Sam take the lead, walk in first. Jim is standing at the kitchen counter, cooking breakfast and John is sitting at the rough hewn table with a mug of coffee in his hands. John’s eyes are sharp on them, going over Dean and then back to Sam, looking for something.

-The coffee is ready if you’d like some, Sam, Jim says.

Sam just snorts, sitting down squarely opposite John and watching him right back in that infuriatingly steady way of his. Dean stands at Sam’s shoulder. He’s actually not in the mood to sit down. He’s not in the mood to eat bacon and eggs, either. As a matter of fact, now that Dean thinks about it, he’s fucking furious. But that’s not a constructive thought to have right now.

-No offense, Jim, but I don’t think me or Sam are going to be taking food from your hand any time soon, Dean says.

Jim actually looks hurt at that. And then sheepish. And then something else flickers in his expression so fast Dean can’t read it. John pointedly takes a sip of his coffee. Dean doesn’t think Sam even blinks.

-You really should eat something, Jim says, knowing Dean’s nausea always gets better once he has something in his stomach after he’s been sedated.   
-Belladonna in your garden too, Sam says and it sounds nonsensical, but Dean still catches the way it makes Jim flinch.   
-I wouldn’t, Jim says appalled.  
-Except you already did, Sam replies, blunt and merciless as always.   
-I had to. For your own good, Jim says.   
-Oh, I don’t think so, Pastor, Sam says and his eyes are still on John. He directs his next question to John. “Your idea?”  
-What makes you think that? John answers.   
-‘Cause it’s so heavy-handed, Sam tells him and the way he says it makes Dean feel like he’s mocking John for something specific, something that makes John drop his gaze to the bottom of the coffee cup he’s clutching.

Dean watches all this play out and he’s keeping his damned mouth shut. He is. He’s just going to stand here and watch.

-I’m right, aren’t I? Sam asks.

When John doesn’t answer Jim pulls the skillet from the stove and starts making up plates for himself and John. They’re having a little breakfast meeting here. Oh, that’s just charming and normal of them. Dean couldn’t eat now if he wanted to. His stomach is roiling and it’s got nothing to do with the drugs.

-What do you think you know? John asks.   
-Wrong question, Johnny, Sam says, calmly.

John grits his teeth. He puts his hands on the table, palms down either side of the now empty coffee cup.

-What the right question? John asks, grimly.   
-You tell me, Sam says.   
-I don’t want to play games, John tells him.   
-This isn’t a game, Sam shoots back and there it is, the crackle of fire underneath all that ice. “This is so far from a game right now. You wanted us here. We’re here. Start talking.”

And, for what good it does, John does start talking.

Being held prisoner in an armory under a church is in some ways a good lead-in to the kind of focus you need to parse the sheer amount of bullshit and misdirection that John spends the next ten minutes trying to sell him and Sam. Sam isn’t having it, Dean already knows that, but he still lets John talk and that leaves Dean the space he needs to just watch his father. It’s fascinating, really, the way he seeds enough truth through what he’s saying to keep everything in the realm of plausibility without actually giving them anything. Or, at least, not giving them anything they haven’t already figured out.

Sam’s doing that thing that he does where he animates his expression enough to seem interested and looking like he’s listening avidly. He is too, just not in the way that John is hoping for. It goes on like that for a while. Jim stays pretty much silent through most of it. He’s observing too, but there’s some underlying tension there. Dean thinks he’s going to keep an eye on that, because there’s nothing like having been so swiftly and thoroughly betrayed to make you reassess your standing with someone.

-So the way I see it we need to work together, John says.

Sam leans back and just looks at John for a long moment and John is looking to Dean for this, eyes still searching, like he’s expecting something from Dean. He probably is. Dean thinks if this had been any other time in any other situation he would have greeted his father with a hug and a clap on the back and then sat down to start the debriefing session they always seem to have these days, the “where have you been” and “what have you been doing” portion of the get-together. John is looking at Dean now like he expects something like that, but Dean and Sam agreed that Sam would do the talking and there’s a reason for that. A good reason. And everyone has those, right? Reasons.

-So you’ve decided I’m not the enemy, Sam says. “What was it? The fact that I could walk into the church without catching on fire? The way I never flinched? The holy water in the milk? The way I’ve not slit anyone’s throat yet?”   
-I think you probably understand why we need to be careful better than anyone, Jim says in his levelheaded tone.

Sam gives him a fleeting smile, the one that’s all surface. Then he glances over at Dean and Dean gives him the kind of crinkled brow and half shrug that means it’s up to him, because it really is.

-You know I’ve been doing my own research, Sam says and John looks interested at that, nodding along. “I think it’s time we started talking about that.”   
-What have you found? John asks, and Dean sees it, that glint of almost manic interest hidden under the false calm that John forces into his own limbs.   
-I found that you’ve both been lying for a long, long time. And that’s what all this has been about, hasn’t it? Sam says. “That’s the thing you won’t talk about. And it’s time you did.”

Dean watches and he sees it, the way John tightens up and the way Jim sags. It’s subtle, for both of them, but it’s there. And Dean sees too that John wants to deny it, but Jim wants to unburden himself. It scares Dean, suddenly, for some reason. Sam hasn’t talked about this, hasn’t shared any of this with Dean. He knows it’s bound to be something big, it’s bound to have to do with his mother’s death, his father’s crusade, Jim’s nervousness.

Sam turns to Dean then and gives him another of those looks that means more. Dean turns to the two men on the other side of the table and looks from John to Jim and then back again.

-Did mom get killed because of me? Dean asks bluntly. “Was that what it was for? Am I one of them?”

John’s gaze goes distant and Jim looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than where he is sitting now. John looks down at the table again and Sam leans abruptly forward, slapping a palm to the wood with a crack that makes both men jump.

-Fucking tell him the truth, Sam snaps.   
-No, son, John says and he sounds like he means it, he sounds heartbroken.   
-Now tell him the rest of it, Sam says.   
-It wasn’t about you. It was about your brother, Jim says.

And there it is. There is the moment when Dean’s stomach stops feeling like a barrel tumbling down Niagara Falls and drops into total freefall. He’s weightless, airless and completely sideswiped.

-My brother? He hears himself asking in a voice that seems to come from far away.

Sam has him by the arm, suddenly, forcing him to sit down before his knees give. Dean is staring at John, but John won’t look back at him. Sam leans forward, catching Dean’s gaze and holding it, keeping a grip on Dean, one solitary point of solid contact and Dean clings to it.

-They were never going to tell you. You understand? They’ve been lying to you for so long, since you were a kid.   
-I have a brother? Dean asks, and he’s asking Sam, because Sam is the only one who hasn’t been fucking lying to him all his life.   
-First thing I do, Dean, Sam tells him. “You know. I do background checks. I did one for you and for John. The fire in Lawrence… your mom is buried there but your little brother isn’t. Because he didn’t die. I thought… when we started riding together you said ‘brother’ and I figured that’s what you wanted, a stand-in for your little brother. I didn’t think for a second that you didn’t _know_.”   
-Dean, son, you have to understand… John starts, but Dean holds up his hand for silence and keeps his eyes on Sam.   
-It took a long time, Dean, but I figured it out, Sam tells him. “They did something. It’s not that they lied to you, right? Because even at five you’d have known you had a brother, so they _did_ something. That’s why, the thing with the demon chasing us, you remember what you said? You said magic can be like a beacon. It wasn’t me, Dean. It wasn’t the car. It was _you_. You’re the beacon because of what they did to you.”

And it’s… it makes sense. It makes so much sense. Dean turns to his father, to his father’s oldest friend, the one with all the books on lore and magic and he looks at them and he doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t.

-Is that true? Dean asks.

John waits for Jim to speak up, but the Pastor isn’t saying anything.

-You have to understand, John says.

And Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to understand. But it makes so much sense, now. All of it. The way he can’t remember, the way he doesn’t even know what his mother looked like, the way he can’t even recall the aftermath, or the house. The way dad won’t ever talk about any of it. He didn’t have smoke inhalation. He wasn’t in hospital. He wasn’t sick or had some kind of trauma induced amnesia. He wasn’t mute for a year because he was afraid.

They _did_ something to him.

-What did you do? Dean asks and his voice is flat, no emotion at all.   
-I thought it was for the best, Jim says and that answers that question. “It became obvious that you would never stop asking for your brother, talking about him, looking for him. We thought it was better if you simply didn’t…”   
-What did you do to my brother? Dean asks.

There’s a whisper of a memory now in the back of his mind, just the feel of a weight in his arms, something he was holding, something precious that was his to take care of. Something that mattered more than the crackle of flames and the heat and the soot that fell around them like black snowflakes.

-We didn’t do anything to him, Jim answers and there’s that affronted tone again like it’s too outrageous a question.   
-What did you _do_? Dean repeats and now he’s staring his father dead in the eyes.   
-Adoption, John says. “I couldn’t take care of a baby and be on the road and you were already…”

“…broken”, Dean fills in when his dad won’t say it. Dean was already broken and dad kept the son he could make a soldier of, the one who was just about old enough to hold a weapon and he let the other one go, just like that, like chaff in the wind.

-Where is he? Dean rasps out.

All that talk about family, about blood, about honor, about it all being for his mom, about his mom, about the families they can save and they did this to Dean. They did this to his little brother.

-We don’t know, John says. “We lost track of him.”

Dean’s still reeling from that when Sam’s grip on his arm tightens another fraction.

-But you have an idea, don’t you, John, Sam says. “You thought he was one of the kids you’ve been tracking, one of the ones with a talent. That’s why that was so important to you. That’s why you never wanted Dean anywhere near it, anywhere near me.”   
-I thought maybe… But it was after I started looking, Dean you have to understand, John says appealing to Dean now, voice softened with honesty and real pain.   
-I don’t have to do anything, Dean spits out.   
-You have a right to be angry, Jim says, “but it was for the best. We made sure your brother was adopted by a nice family, the best we could find for him, someone who would let him grow up in a loving and nurturing environment.”

Sam makes a disbelieving noise. He’s the one who knows how that goes, where that can lead.

-But you lost track of him, Dean says and he can’t believe that part.

How can some of the best trackers and hunters in the business lose track of a baby? He doesn’t believe it. They’re still lying. They have to be. They can’t have just given Dean’s little brother away and then not known where he was and just let that slide.

-Six years ago, John supplies.

And that’s when Sam goes ghostly pale beside Dean. 


	51. Cascade

The room is really fucking tense, that goes without saying. Dean’s head is … not a very tidy place at the moment. He’s having to rearrange a lot of things, a lot of information, to make it all make sense. The idea that someone’s messed with his head, that they made him forget his own past is deeply unsettling, to say the least. There’s a niggling worry that if they did it once then they can do it again. Being subjected to someone else’s judgment on what’s “best for him” is not at all reassuring. And he doesn’t even want to start thinking about that right now, because he was already pretty angry when he walked into this little meeting and that’s not looking to get better any time soon.

Pastor Jim is looking from Sam to Dean and he’s got this solicitous look on his face like he just wants to soothe away all their worries and all their troubles and talk about this, talk it all out until they’ve come around to his way of reasoning and seen that it’s all been for the best. Dean thinks of all the times he’s brought his troubles and relative woes to the Pastor and sat at his side and listened to that calm, measured voice and let it help, let it alleviate the aching loneliness and the anger and the fear and the uncertainty of growing up the way he did. And he can’t trust a damned word of any of that now. Not one syllable. Not because it wasn’t meant well, or because it wasn’t all said and done with good intention, but because the same man that gave out all that guidance and reassurance had built it all on something Dean isn’t, someone he isn’t.

Some of what Dean knows about himself is a lie. Some of the things that were writ in stone in his own psyche are all a fucking lie. He’s not the only son. He’s not the sole survivor. He’s not the only thing John has left. He’s not the last bastion. He’s not the reason his mom was murdered.

John is trying so hard to keep stoic, Dean can tell. He’s trying to keep a good face on this, the revelation, the fact that he’s been caught out in a lie so big, so profound, there’s no telling how deep it really goes. Dean’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to see past this. No, wait, that’s not right. He knows he won’t. Whatever else gets said here today, whatever else happens, he’s never going to be able to trust his old man again. And, what’s even worse, because trust with them was kind of spotty at best, Dean’s never going to be able to fully respect the man again.

Family, John’s one basic tenet, his one true honest-to-goodness loadstone and even that’s a lie.

Sam’s the one to break the silence.

-You said we need to work together. I’m guessing you figured out that you need one of the talents. You probably tried the others. Were they too dangerous to work with? Did they just see you as some fucked-up weirdo who started spurting crazy talk about things they see in their dreams? Or did you kill them all already?  
-No, Jim cuts in voice hardened marginally with more of that outrage that Dean shouldn’t find so nastily amusing right now. “We are not child killers.”

John looks momentarily vaguely guilty and a little startled. Sam is back to being in perfect rigid control, but it’s harsher now, even more locked down than before.

-There’s a reason you drugged us and chucked us in a basement, Pastor, Sam says, voice blandly mild now, like he can’t afford the anger. That doesn’t mean Jim’s title doesn’t come out more like an insult, though.  
-I wasn’t sure you would stay here if I asked you to, John answers. “I admit it seems extreme, but I’ve been trying to get in touch with the you for months.”  
-If by ‘get in touch with’ you mean ambush, then sure, Sam says coolly. “I’m sure that this was more … expedient for you.”  
-It’s not the way I would have preferred to do this, but…  
-Your son went off the reservation and took up with what you’ve been thinking of as the enemy until fairly recently.  
-You don’t know what you’re talking about, John tells Sam and some of that old familiar steel has crept into his tone, that absolute certainty that he’s right.

Sam just raises an eyebrow. Dean’s been on the receiving end of that eyebrow. It’s not pleasant.

-I know all about you, John, Sam says.

And he’s got to know how provocative that statement is. John’s lived the last twenty years of his life relying on need-to-know and secrets he’s been keeping and Sam’s going after that like it’s his job.

-You don’t know everything. I know you think you do, but you’re still just a kid and you’re better off listening to your elders here, John tells Sam, defensive enough that Dean’s getting angry just from sitting next to Sam.

But Sam doesn’t blow up like Dean’s been kind of expecting him to do. Instead he leans back a little further in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. It should look defensive, all that locked-up body language, but it just doesn’t. Instead it comes across as dismissive and contained.

-We have a name for guys like you in foster care, Sam says and lets that sit for just long enough that Dean can fill in all the slurs that he can think of and judging from the looks on John’s face and Jim’s too, he’s not the only one. “Sperm donor”, is what Sam comes out with and it’s accompanied with the slightest hint of a mean smile.

John bites down on what he wants to say hard enough that Dean can see the clenching of his jaw. The way Sam says it, he might as well have said “coward”.

-Sam, please, Jim says, but that’s a bad idea because that’s not going to mollify Sam right now, it’s only going to draw his fire.  
-You don’t have the moral high ground here right now, Pastor, Sam says dismissively. “You actually don’t have a leg to stand on considering you played an active part in this whole fucking mess.”

Jim subsides, though it’s clear that he has more to say and wants to try to keep things civil. Dean knows Sam is at his most dangerous when he’s this calm. He doesn’t think civility is high on Sam’s list of priorities.

-It might all seem clear-cut to you, but… John tries, but Sam cuts him off again.  
-I told you before, I do my homework. I’m a very competent researcher, Sam says and there’s the reasonable tone again, the one that holds far more threat than if Sam was throwing a temper tantrum. “You have quite the rap sheet, John. You want me to prove how good I am? Does anyone else know about Minnesota?”

John actually flinches at that. He looks like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Dean has no idea what went down in Minnesota, he can’t remember anything significant enough to make his father look like that, but whatever it is, it must be bad. Jim has turned to look at John too, so obviously he’s not in on it, whatever it might be.

-And that’s discounting all the misdemeanors you’ve racked up over the years, and I’m not talking about the hunt-related stuff, here. I’m talking drunken disorderly, getting fined for urinating in public, driving under the influence. Small time, stupid shit. Should fly in the face of all that stuff you taught Dean about not attracting attention. All that and you still had the nerve to be an asshole about Dean tipping off the FBI about a serial killer.

John is starting to look like he wants to throttle Sam. And Sam picks up on it fast.

-You make a move on me, John, and I’m out the door, Sam tells him.

John’s twitching with wanting to hit back somehow, Dean can tell. So can Jim. Sam, however, doesn’t give a shit.

-You have Dean pretty well trained. You’ve got your pet Pastor there so deep in your shit he can’t walk even if he wanted to. But you have absolutely no leverage with me. And you’re the one looking for favors here, Sam says and he’s still so fucking calm.

Dean knows how much this must gall his father and he’s not going to pretend it isn’t at least a little bit satisfying, knowing that this is just the tip of whatever goddamned ice berg of lies John has been surfing on.

-You’re not the only one who’s done research, John clips out. “I doubt that Dean would be so loyal if he knew some of the things I’ve found.”  
-Dad… Dean says, trying to, he doesn’t even know, trying to stop this before it gets even worse.  
-Really? I sucked cock for money, he knows that. I was in and out of the system for years. Got beaten, tortured. Learned to hit back. He knows, he’s seen the scars. He’s seen me fight, too.  
-The fire, John says like he’s throwing down some kind of trump card.  
-He knows about that. The version that wasn’t in the official paperwork, Sam says. “Knows more than most people, actually. Hasn’t thrown me to the curb yet. You might want to rethink your strategy. You’re not exactly endearing yourself to me right now. And understand this, John, I won’t be ordered.”

John’s attention swings back to Dean with that and Dean… Dean’s in this. He’s in this, so help him, and he’s not taking his father’s side in anything right now, because it doesn’t matter how betrayed John is looking, or how accusing the looks he’s sending Dean are, Dean doesn’t have a goddamned thing to be sorry about.

-If you want something from me, John, Sam says, “you’re going to have to ask me very nicely. You can threaten me, but short of killing me there’s not a lot you can do to me that someone else hasn’t already tried.”  
-You’d be surprised, John tells him, leaning forward across the table and there’s something about that statement that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

Sam unlocks his arms and leans in until he’s almost close enough to breathe John’s air.

-We both know you’ve got absolutely nothing. Intimidating me doesn’t work so well, torturing me won’t get you anywhere and killing me is definitely counterproductive, Sam tells him and Dean might as well be a part of the fucking wallpaper right now.

Jim starts towards John, reaching for his shoulder with something deeply worried on his face that Dean has just enough time to read as a warning before John speaks up again.

-I’m your father, John says.

Dean has been sitting here, trying his damndest to keep his head in the game despite all the shit getting dumped on him, waiting for something to set him off. This is that thing. John’s face, the anger, the sheer stupidity of trying to throw that down, the regret and sadness on Jim’s face, the way Sam doesn’t even tense up, shoulders still loose and not even a twitch and Dean… Dean’s just gone for a moment.

It sets off a cascade in his mind, memories, snatches of conversation, things he’s been seeing for months, things he’s been feeling, filing away as just the general weirdness of him-and-Sam together, the way they fell into step, the way they fit together, the way Sam just slotted into the shotgun seat like he belonged there. More than anything else, the way Sam’s presence stopped him from feeling so blindingly, achingly lonely. Dean had thought that was all his own issues, his own shit, but no, of course not, because Dean can’t even have one good thing, one complicated, but truly good thing, without it being wrapped up in family and the family business.

Dean’s heart is pounding like he’s about to have a heart attach and his breath is coming uneven. He’s sweating, cold down his back and under his arm and down the back of his legs and he’s shaking, the kind of junky tremors that he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

-That’s not really a point in your favor, Sam says and his voice is still completely level and calm.

And that’s when Dean knows. Sam already knew. John looks taken aback. Jim’s hand finally comes down on John’s shoulder. John shoots him a look and there’s mild regret on John’s face now, like he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but Dean’s not seeing anything like real remorse. More like John overplayed his hand and doesn’t really know what to do next.

-Are you sure? Jim asks, like that’s the thing that matters here. Hell, from his perspective it might just be.  
-Singer had a toothbrush. We did the DNA thing. Just got the results, John grits out.  
-Good for you, Sam says and he’s openly scornful now.  
-Sam, I know this is a lot for you to take in, Jim says, trying to reach out to Sam with that same infinite kindness that he’s always shown for people who have just had their lives torn apart by sorrows and trauma.  
-You think this changes anything? Sam says and his tone is light but disdainful.  
-Of course it does, Jim says like he’s about to start talking about wayward sons and fatted calves.

Sam makes eye contact with John and lets it draw out for a moment.

-Means fuck-all to me, Sam says. “Sperm donor.”  
-I looked for you for years. After that thing there wasn’t a single trace anywhere. Records sealed and I couldn’t… I couldn’t find you, I didn’t even know if you were still alive until…  
-You’re not hearing me, John, Sam tells him. “I could care less. If you had come around when I was eight it might have made some kind of difference, but after I had my arm broken by my foster so she could get her hands on some prescription meds for her little addiction I kind of gave up on the idea of happy families.”  
-We’re here now, Jim says. “We can go forward from here.”

And Dean kind of wants to laugh, but he’s scared that if he starts he’s not going to be able to stop.

-That’s a nice thought, but you don’t get it either, Pastor. I was a problem that you got rid of. If this hadn’t happened, he never would have come looking for me. And you never would have told Dean anything about me. He’s got a use for me now, that’s the only reason he’s here, so if you think even for a second that I give a shit about your feelings, you better think again, Sam tells them calmly and then he glances over at Dean.

Dean’s got no idea what kind of look is on his face right now, but it cant’ be anything good. Sam’s expression loses some of its arctic chill and his hand lands squarely over Dean’s heart, pressing there for just a second.

-Breathe, Dean, Sam tells him in a completely different tone from the one he uses when he’s squaring off against the two men on the other side of the table.

Dean feels numb and hurt and lost and so fucking angry that he’s actually having real trouble breathing. Sam can tell he’s not doing so good right now and Dean wants to say something, do something, but his chest doesn’t feel right, lungs all compressed and wrong and he’s got nothing in his head and no air in his goddamned lungs and Sam starts doing that thing you do when someone’s having a panic attack, trying to get Dean to lean forward or something, but that’s not at all what Dean wants, no, fuck, what he needs right now.

Dean grabs on to the wrist attached to the hand on his chest and gets to his feet, pulling Sam up and away from the table, dragging at him until he’s got Sam locked in a hug so tight there’s no air between them to match the lack of air in his lungs so he can feel Sam’s heart beating against his own heart and feel Sam breathing and maybe that way when Sam breathes his body can remember what it’s supposed to do. Sam mumbles something at him, Dean burying his face at Sam’s shoulder, hiding the way he’s fucking cracking apart like badly cast glass right now. He’s hugging Sam so tight Sam’s ribs creak a little under his grip and Sam holds him back just as fiercely.

Dean’s been fucking around with his baby brother.

That’s a little… not good.

-I don’t remember you, Dean says into Sam’s neck in a voice he doesn’t even recognize as his own.  
-‘s okay, Dean, Sam tells him.

But it’s not. It’s _not_ okay. None of this is.

And under his breath Dean says “time to go” into Sam’s skin. “Rabbit”, he almost whispers. With one fierce final squeeze he lets Sam go and leans back just enough that they can look in each other’s eyes. Sam’s ready to argue, but when their gazes meet he just gives a short nod instead and steps away, heading for the door without even a retreating glance at John or Jim.

John is about to get to his feet when Dean plants himself in the doorway, blocking the exit. He stands there, feet braced, shoulders straight and he’s got his gun out now, damned straight he does.

-Sit back down, you son of a bitch, Dean says and there’s something in his voice that pulls John up short and makes Jim plop back down from where he was half way to standing.  
-Dean, son, John starts and he sounds really genuinely surprised.  
-No, you’ve done quite enough talking, dad.

John seems to think that Dean’s not serious, so he starts getting up again, probably meaning to get closer to Dean, to put a hand on his shoulder and start giving him that line again about how this was all for his own good, for his baby brother good, for the greater good. Dean doesn’t really want to raise his weapon. It’s not that he can’t, it’s more that you should never aim at something if you don’t have the intention of pulling the trigger. And right now, he’s not sure he won’t. John doesn’t understand. How can he not understand? Dean’s mind’s a mess. He’s _dangerous_ right now, in a way he’s never been towards his father before.

-Sit back down, Dean tells him, stressing every word and taking aim a little lower than center mass.

He’s aiming at John’s thigh. Maybe his dick a little too, but mostly his thigh. John’s eyes go startled wide and Dean can’t understand how this can in any way be surprising to him.

-We’re leaving, Dean announces.  
-I think that might be for the best, Jim says carefully, cautiously.

Dean’s gun does a little detour to the Pastor, but his aim is back on John the second he shifts in his chair.

-Don’t … Just don’t, Dean says.  
-You can’t leave like this, Dean. You can’t trust …  
-Don’t tell me I can’t trust my own brother, Dean says and there are so many things going on here that it’s all wrong right now. Everything is just all so fucking wrong.  
-The two of you, Dean. I can’t let you go, John tells him. “You told me it wasn’t like that but the way you are together…”  
-Right now, Dean says, cutting that off, because who the hell does John think he is? Dean clears his throat and continues. “Right now he’s the only one I trust. He’s the only one who hasn’t lied to me.”

Jim puts his hand on John’s arm this time and tugs just a little.

-Let them go. I think you all need to cool down before you talk more.  
-Don’t follow us, Dean tells them both. “I never point my gun unless I’m willing to pull the trigger. My father taught me that.”

And with that, Dean walks out. 


	52. Tether

Dean’s not sure it’s entirely smart for him to be behind the wheel.

There’s a lot going on in his head right now. Every time his mind gets close to the concepts of family and brother his thoughts skitter away and try to go anywhere else. Because … family. That’s what it’s always been about. That’s what John’s always told him it was about, the highest standard, the flag they fought under.

There’s a level of betrayal to the whole thing that Dean can’t deal with. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this fucking angry or this lost. There’s just this enormous weight to it that means it’s too much to deal with, too big.

Sam is in the shotgun seat. He’s being kind of quiet, but that’s not unusual. There’s nothing cautious about the silence, but there is something just a little bit expectant.

They have to talk, of course they do, even Dean knows that, and as much as he hates the whole talking-things-out thing that’s what’s going to happen. That’s what needs to happen, because Dean just lost at least one of the pillars that holds up his entire world view and things are getting lopsided just from him sitting here, clutching at the steering wheel with blanched knuckles, shying away from his own thoughts.

He’s just so … disappointed. Kind of wants to start cursing. Maybe in more than one language. Wants to hit something. Break something.

Probably a good thing they left when they did. John came pretty close to getting himself a little ventilated. Pastor, too. There’s probably a special little niche in hell for guys who do shit like that.

And the raging anger is justified, which really doesn’t help. That’s how it starts. Dean knows that better than ever now. That sense of righteousness is just the first stepping stone on the slipperiest slope you could ever slide down.

The thing is, they didn’t just do this do Dean, they did it to Sam, too. They did this to Sam and Sam has been through the kind of literal hell that makes Dean want to do more than just throw some bad words around. He had to walk away. He had to get them out of there before he lost the slim hold he had on his fucking temper. And even now he’s pretty sure that John still doesn’t get it. What he did… what he’s done, what he’s been doing… there’s no way Dean’s going to forgive that.

Dean just drives. He takes them as far away from the cozy little room in the rectory and two of the most influential people in his life as he can possibly get them before he starts fading behind the wheel. And Sam doesn’t say a thing about it. Sam is golden like that. Sam is better at this kind of thing than anyone Dean’s ever been with, letting him drive and not talk about it. Dean needs to not talk about it for a while before he starts talking about it, because right now words are zipping around in him like angry hornets and if he opens his mouth he’s not going to be pouring all that anger out at the right targets. Sam reads maps and tells Dean to stop for coffee and food when they’ve gone hell for leather into the late afternoon.

He keeps a weather eye on Dean, gauging his mood. Every time their gazes connect Sam seems to think “nope, not yet” and Dean agrees with that because every time he looks into those incredibly variable eyes he keeps getting these random memory flashes. Sam with blood on his face. Sam sitting with his back to Dean, showing scars. Sam by the road side, desperate and crying. Sam when he’s hungry, when he’s tired, when he’s hurt and just powering through it. Sam with that cold murderous look in his eye and a gun in his hand. Sam cutting the ear of a backwards bastard who thought they’d be easy prey. Sam sharing secrets in the dark. Sam two seconds away from coming, a base note to his voice and bliss overtaking his features. Sam with his head thrown back, laughing.

Dean knows this kid. He thinks he knew him when he met him, because that wasn’t like a first meeting at all. It wasn’t a “hello, who are you?”, it was a “there you are, I’ve missed you” and Dean can see that now.

They’ve been saying it, both of them. They’ve been saying there’s something weird about it, how they get along, how they fit together. They’ve been saying it all along. Dean just never thought it would be this.

Dean takes them out as far away from people as he can get, finds them a camp site. They’re well into Colorado and it’s almost dark. Dean’s just really done with people right now. He’s done with all the things people do. He promised Sam open skies and if he’s honest he thinks he needs them too, right now, because there’s too much weight bearing down on him like the whole of history has suddenly got mass and density. He hates feeling like this, like he can’t breathe, like the air is soup.

The guy that sells them the permit tells them to watch out for snakes. He tells them there are showers with good water pressure. He tells them about dinosaur foot prints and Indian trails. He tells them about rivers and gift shops. Dean doesn’t hear much of it, lets Sam do the talking. Somehow, though, he looks up and catches the guy mid-patter, locking gazes for just a second and the guy, mid thirties, handsome, clearly of native American descent stops mid-word. Dean doesn’t know what passes between them, but there’s something in the guy’s eyes, a kind of recognition, an abrupt understanding.

-You’re not here for the fishing, the guy says.

Dean just shakes his head.

-We just need… open sky, Sam tells him. “Been a rough couple of days.”

The guy gives a nod, rich with comprehension and when he turns back to Sam all the traces of easy-going tourist-friendly native guide are gone.

-You go past the picket fence and keep going. You’ll hear the water, so keep it on your left. No people out there. Nothing but sky. You can build a fire, you know what to do. Don’t worry about snakes. The land is good there, the grass sweet. You stay as long as you need, he says.

And Sam thanks him, tells him they know what to do, tells him they know how to build a fire, how to be respectful.

They go with knives and guns and flashlights and sleeping bags. It’s not quiet, but the noise is the right kind of noise. Dean still feels like he wants to scream rage at the sky, the silent stars, but at least he’s not within killing distance of his father any more. Their feet lead them to a place where someone’s camped before. Probably a lot of people over time, actually. It feels old, the whole place. Soft packed earth and a circle of stones for a fire pit.

There’s not a lot of stars once they’ve gotten settled in. Cloud cover and a breeze make it dark night and a little chilly so Dean builds a fire and Sam sits down next to him, close enough that they share the heat from the fire and body heat between them and they’re okay, they’re reasonably comfortable and Dean’s got a mother of a headache by then, all that tension taking root in the muscles of his neck. He thinks it’s nothing like what he thought he had promised Sam when they were underground. Feels like years ago. Feels like he’s lost … something. Years of his life. Things he didn’t even know he had to lose.

There’s always something. That’s the trick of this whole thing. You think you got nothing left to lose, you think you know someone, but there’s always something.

-Do you know what they did to me, Sammy? Dean asks, voice half wrecked in the gloom.   
-I got a pretty good idea. But tomorrow, Dean. We talk about all this tomorrow because I didn’t sleep and neither did you. Getting roofied doesn’t count, okay? Sam says.

And what’s Dean going to say to that when he’s the one who’s been stewing on this quiet all day, so he just nods and then they roll themselves up in their sleeping bags and lay back to back under the open sky.

“Like brothers”, Dean thinks just before he falls asleep.

He wakes up when Sam comes ambling up the deer trail they trekked last night. He’s carrying a paper bag and a thermos. They’re out in the wild, but the wild isn’t what it used to be, Dean thinks. Sam seems calm, together. Dean feels like he was steamrolled and then flattened out to be bent into some new and interesting configuration. His head is still a mess. He’s not sure how much Sam might have slept, if he slept at all. Dean sits up and Sam plunks down facing him, dropping the bag in Dean’s lap.

-Bacon and deer meat sandwich. That’s like call of the wild with a side of domesticated heart attack. And coffee, Sam says instead of good morning.

Dean rubs at his eyes and opens the bag, grabbing one of the sandwiches. They eat and then just sit there breathing for a while. Sam is watching him, now, that sharp and scrutinizing look in his eyes.

-You a little less likely to go nuclear now? He asks after a while.

Dean makes a so-so gesture with his hand. Fifty-fifty on that, he thinks.

-When did you know? Dean asks, because that’s been bugging him, actually.   
-Know what?  
-That you’re my brother. My long lost kid _brother_.   
-Are we sure about that? Sam asks.   
-Fuck d’you mean? Of course we are, Dean says and he’s … yeah, he’s still angry.

Sam gives him a shrug and a vague head wobble.

-I’m still not, Sam tells him in his goddamned politician’s voice.   
-What do you mean? You were right there, Dean tells him and it’s a little accusing, maybe, because this isn’t a game anymore.   
-Oh, man. I can’t believe you, Sam says. “What we _know_ is that there’s a birth certificate for your brother and no death certificate. We _know_ that they put him up for adoption. We know that they lost track of him and fucked with your head so you’d forget all about him. That’s what we _know_.”  
-What about what dad said? Dean asks.   
-That’s what I mean. You’re still trusting him. I’m not taking anything on bad evidence. So he had a toothbrush, so what? That might have been yours. DNA on that would come up likely for a son, don’t you think? You’ve got to stop thinking, with what he did to you, that he doesn’t have an agenda with the things he says and does.

And … fuck. It actually hurts that Sam is as smart as he is sometimes, ‘cause he’s not wrong.

-Okay, so, setting that aside. It’s likely, though, isn’t it? Dean asks.   
-Yeah. Too much coincidence. I don’t trust that either. And… look, that’s not where I want to start this.   
-Okay, so start where you need to, Dean tells him.   
-I told you I’d found out things you wouldn’t like and you said… You said you didn’t want to be lied to. Do you still mean that? Sam asks him and Dean doesn’t just say yes and go along with it, because whatever else he was thinking he had in no way, shape or form been ready for this.

Fuck it, though. Fuck it all. He’s out of options and he’s looking at this kid, this incredible kid who is without a doubt a lot stronger than Dean, and a lot smarter too. He’s got to at least try. For Sam.

-Yes, Dean says. “I can’t promise I won’t get mad, but… I’m here.”   
-Like I said, I knew they did something. There are a couple of different options, but basically it’s like a memory wipe. That’s why you don’t remember anything about your mom either. I don’t think they meant to do that, if that’s any consolation. I think it’s like … a … you can’t just expunge one thing, not when it’s so connected. You kind of have to do the whole memory.   
-Makes sense, Dean says through gritted teeth.

They stole his memories of his mother too. Great.

-Okay, so. When we were in that town near Topeka…  
-Wait, where?   
-Where you introduced me to John, remember? You were looking for a poltergeist, got thrown into a mausoleum…  
-Busted ribs, yeah, I remember.   
-When I broke into his motel room…  
-Wait. What? Dean cuts in.

Sam gives him one of those flickering little smiles.

-Yeah, Dean. I’m a delinquent with trust issues. I broke into John’s motel room when you were out doing your thing.   
-How … How did you… Why?   
-‘Cause I could. And something about that whole thing was just off. You know what I mean. I mean, I didn’t know you all that well, but I figured he was acting way too paranoid. I had your names by then, most of his rap sheet, things like that. I did some of that background at the library, but some of the rest of it came later. I needed something, driver’s license, social security, so.   
-So you broke into dad’s motel room. He would have fucking killed you if he caught you, you know.   
-Yeah, well, Sam says with a shrug. “I’m fast. And I knew you were out. Besides you ward against evil, but sometimes you forget to lock the door.”

Dean knows that’s true too. Dad’s the same way, leaves the windows open and puts out the do-not-disturb sign and forgets that people can still get in.

-Okay, so… I found his journal and copied that…  
-You did what? Dean cuts in again, because that thing is like… the most private personal possession John has and it’s really unbelievable that Sam could just take that down to Kinko’s and fucking copy it.

And Sam leans forward and puts one hand on Dean’s knee and looks him dead in the eyes.

-Take a breath, Sam tells him.

Dean takes a breath.

-Go ahead, he says.   
-So, I started putting it together from there. I asked you, man, so many times. What you wanted from me. You kept saying ‘nothing’. But we were brothers in your mind from pretty early on, I think. And I kept thinking it was because you lost yours. I didn’t figure out that you didn’t know because… well, you don’t talk about it. And I thought, you know. There are things I don’t like talking about. I really thought you knew. And I tried to be that for you, because that was so obviously what you wanted. And then things got… complicated.   
-You’re telling me, Dean agrees and when he thinks about it … Sam’s not wrong.

When Dean was trying to get the kid to open up, when he was trying to feed Sam and maybe get him to get back in the car with Dean and just take the ride he offered, hell, even earlier than that. Dean thought of Sam as “the kid” the second he laid eyes on him and Sam isn’t really that much younger, or, at least he doesn’t seem that much younger. Not when he was swinging wild punches at the bogey man in the skate park. Not when he was sitting in Dean’s car dripping rain water on the seat threatening him with a knife. Not when he looked at Dean and asked what Dean wanted from him. He’s been asking and Dean just thought… he’s not sure what he was thinking, but he’s been trying to take care of Sam since they met. He couldn’t explain it to Bobby or dad or even himself because he never really understood what it was that drove that instinct.

-From the other end, Sam says and now his voice is a little less steady. “I knew there was something about you, something about you and me together. Voice in my dreams kept harping on about a warrior for me but that got real quiet after we met. And then he didn’t like you. And then we started fucking around and he liked that much better. That’s never a good sign.”

Sam is fearless. He really is. And he’s still meeting Dean’s gaze and he’s not flinching away from what all that might mean.

-The thing is, Dean, Sam tells him, “it doesn’t really matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”   
-Changes everything, Dean tells him and his own voice sounds rusty.   
-For you, yeah. Absolutely. But not for me.   
-How can you say that? Dean asks.   
-Your father…  
-Might be yours too, Dean cuts in.   
-I’m not building anything on “might”. But, okay. John, then. John still doesn’t get anything from me. That’s his penance. You said it yourself, he’s hunting something he can’t kill. He’s not even trying, man, not really. I’ve been looking into some things and there are resources that could maybe yield something about a weapon or an exorcism, but he’s not looking for that. He’s looking for an easy out. I’m not going to give it to him. Especially not after this, after knowing what he’s done to you.   
-That thing still needs to be taken out.   
-I’m not arguing that. But…  
-We’re not crusaders, Dean tells Sam.

And right when he says it, he sees something in Sam’s eyes. There’s a light, a wall, something. It’s fast, whatever that is, and Sam moves to try and shield that, hide it, but it’s too late now.

-What? Dean asks.   
-You don’t get to keep me, Dean, Sam tells him, voice gentle but uncompromising.

And with that another pillar starts to wobble in the foundation of Dean’s view of the world.

 


	53. If we are

Dean’s first impulse is predictably physical. He wants to throw himself across the space between them and pin Sam to the ground. He wants to hold him there until he changes his mind, takes those words back and says something better, something Dean wants to hear. And that’s the problem, right there.

Sam’s been telling him that he was going to say things Dean doesn’t want to hear and somehow Dean’s still managed to convince himself that he was just .. preparing Dean for the stupid fucking revelations that have been raining down on Dean like birds falling dead out of the sky. It’s all so … tiring. It really is.

That doesn’t mean that the impulse is any less overpowering. It probably shows on his face, judging from the way Sam tenses up.

-The fuck does that mean? Dean asks and the words are clipped, laser focused.

Sam tilts his head just a little, eyes narrowing. He’s looking at Dean, trying to gauge how much leeway he has out here, miles from anyone and anything. Miles away from a car he can climb into, a bus he can get on. Miles away from where anyone could come to his rescue. Right now that gives Dean a sick little thrill. He’s not entirely sure he wants to feel this way, but he can’t deny that it’s fitting. Sam should be wary of him right now, brother or not.

-You’re the one who said it, Dean, Sam tells him. “This isn’t my life, it’s yours. I’m just along for the ride for a little while.”   
-That was before, Dean tells him.

Because he said that, he did. He meant it too. Still does in some ways. He didn’t want this life for Sam before and he doesn’t want it for him now, but… If Sam is his brother, and he is, Dean’s about ninety-nine percent sure of that, then he belongs with Dean. He belongs right by Dean’s side, in the shotgun seat where he’s been living for months now. He belongs in the second bed in the motel room, or, fuck, he belongs in Dean’s bed, which isn’t right, that’s not even something he can think too much about, but the way that feels, the deeper sense that it’s right, inherently, stupidly, incredibly right, tells Dean all he needs to know about where his own head is at.

-That hasn’t changed, Sam tells him, implacable, shaking his head.   
-Of course it has.

Sam shifts, a little ruffled shuffle of his whole body, before settling down again. He looks like he’s getting ready for something bigger and Dean thinks to himself that there isn’t more, there can’t be more bullshit coming his way. He’s good at rolling with the punches, but he doesn’t think he can go another round. He really doesn’t think he has it in him. He feels too battered and bruised.

-Okay, so… What do you want from me, Dean? Sam asks and his voice is gentle, bland.

Dean doesn’t want that version of Sam right now, the closed off, well-reasoned gentleman scholar politician who can talk circles around Dean and has all the fucking patience in the world.

-It’s not about what I want, Dean tells him.   
-Are you sure? ‘Cause it doesn’t seem to be about what I want, Sam says swiftly.

They sit there, staring at each other and… Jesus, it hurts. It just hurts.

Sam’s the one who breaks the silence, because he’s a fearless little shit and he’s the one who can do this, he’s the one who can take all this and push it with the kind of steel determination that won’t back down even when Dean thinks he’s at the point of begging. They could forget all this, couldn’t they? Just for a little while. They could go on, just get in the car and drive, try to pretend that they hadn’t ever heard the words, that they don’t know. But Sam won’t let them. Dean knows that. And he hates the little shit for it right now.

-You don’t understand, Dean. I know you think you do, but you can’t. Since I was like eight years old all I’ve ever thought about, all I’ve ever worked for is to get out. Just … no one to hold anything over my head, you know? And no one to tell me where to go, what to do. I’ve been fighting for that for so long. And you’ve helped. You don’t know how much. I’m not just talking about the money and the … getting rid of Malden, but… with everything. You’re the one who showed me all this stuff, everything about what’s out there. But I can’t be what you want me to be.   
-You’re talking like I’m trying to make you into something you’re not, Dean says. “That not it.”

Sam doesn’t seem terribly impressed by that.

-You don’t think I know? Sam asks. “I know all about wanting family. I used to pray at night for family. I used to walk past strangers in the street thinking that one could be my father, my mother, my sister, my brother. I used to pray one day someone would come find me.”   
-I’m sorry, Sam, Dean says and it’s automatic, he doesn’t even think about it before the words are out of his mouth.   
-It’s not on you, Dean, Sam tells him. “But that doesn’t change the fact that no one ever came.”

That hurts too, but it’s a different pain, sharp over blunt, like someone’s taken a knife to an old bruise and cut through it to the dead blood underneath.

-What if all I want is for you to be my brother? Dean asks.

Which is … so stupid. And a lie. Or, not a lie, exactly, but an obfuscation, muddying of the waters. Dean wants so much more than that. He wants more than that should be. He’s bad at this kind of thing, the kind of conversation they’re having is like a hostage negotiation and Dean’s never been the best at those. It doesn’t help that he still craves the taste of Sam’s mouth.

-If I’m your brother then I am, Sam says. “But that’s not what we’re talking about.”   
-I think it is.  
-No, it’s about what that means. Look, your dad taught you all this stuff about family and how that’s supposed to be, but I can’t live like that. More to the point, I won’t. I have a plan, Dean. I’ve got my own plan and my own ideas and no matter what happens here, I’m not going to just roll over for you. Either of you. It’d be just another fucking basement.

Not a bad idea, actually. Dean could lock them in a basement until they’ve worked this out. He thinks that and then he realizes what he just thought and he’s immediately disgusted by himself. He’s had this need to pin Sam down since they met, not just physically, but in some bigger sense. He’s wanted to figure Sam out, get through all the layers to the things that are real. You should be careful what you wish for, Dean knows. He’s looking at the kid now and he thinks he’s known all along that this is what’s at Sam’s core. This fierce brutal independence isn’t structured the way it usually is for some kid about to set out on his own.

Dean understands that. He doesn’t like it, but he gets that Sam hasn’t been waiting around for anyone to help him with anything in a very long time. And that’s from a kid who wasn’t even old enough to get into bars when they met. Dean gets that sinking feeling in his stomach that you experience when you know it’s too late to change things.

-So what? You’re just going to go and live some nine-to-five regular Joe life? Dean says and there’s more than a little distain in his tone.

Sam looks at him, seeming looking straight through him to all the ugly little thoughts that Dean tries so hard to hide.

-If I do, it’s my choice. That’s the whole point, Sam tells him.

Dean understands that, he does. He doesn’t think for even a second that it’s going to go that way, though. He knows what happens to people once they’ve been touched by the supernatural. He knows you never get free from it. At the same time he figures he can kind of see how this works for Sam now.

It’s not even about the bad things that have happened to Sam because of the choices other people have made. It’s not the horror stories that Sam has told him and all the things that he’s never told, the things that he’s probably never going to tell. Sam has been touched by darkness in more ways than one and he’s never going to be able to wash that away, get away from any of it.

Even if Sam was just some kid, he would still be the kid brought up in foster care without any real family and anyone to take care of him. He would still be a genius. He would still be too sharp, too bright, too distrustful, too wary. He would still be the sum of all his experiences, a kid that doesn’t sleep right and sees things in his dreams. He would still be someone who sits with his back to a wall, looking at everything and everyone around him doing threat assessment and mapping out escape routes.

-Whatever you choose, man, it’s not going to make any of this just go away, Dean tells him and that’s a little cruel, but it’s still the truth.   
-Don’t you think I know that? Sam asks in return and his voice is still kind, calm. “I’m still a freak. That’s never going to change.”   
-You’re not a freak, Dean answers, a rote kind of reassurance, but he means it.

Sam is remarkable. Sam is more than that, he’s spectacular. Impressive and brilliant and so broken it hurts to look at him sometimes. He’s beautiful and graceful and so stubborn Dean wants to slap him. He’s engaging and fascinating. He’s got more determination than Dean thinks is good for him. He’s got the kind of charisma that can take over a whole room, make people want to be near him. He can disappear too, just melt into the background if he doesn’t want to be noticed. And he’s smart and he’s sharp and he’s dark.

Sam’s everything Dean wants. That’s a real kick in the head.

The other side of that particular coin is that no one is going to dictate anything to Sam, tell him what to do, where to go. Anyone who tries is in for a big surprise.

If … oh, this is so wrong. And it makes so much sense. If dad thought that Sam was in danger and that’s why he let go of him the way he did, then he has brewed himself a nice big cup of trouble if he really needs Sam for anything now. If dad let Sam go because he thinks Sam is dangerous, that turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. If this was engineered somehow, by some other force outside of them all, to make Sam more pliant, more biddable, Dean can only pity whoever is behind it.

-I always knew it was too good to be true, Sam says and he’s looking down into the weedy dirt at his feet.   
-What was? Dean asks.   
-You. Me. This thing, Sam says and he looks up at Dean through the hair fallen to cover his face. “No one ever does anything for me for nothing and I never get to keep anything good. It’s just the way it is.”  
-You can keep me, Dean says, and he’s almost embarrassed by how eager he sounds, how fast that falls out of his mouth.  
-I can’t, Sam tells him and a small crooked smile quirks his mouth.   
-Brother means you get to keep me, Dean tells him.

Sam just shakes his head again, like Dean’s being deliberately dense.

And the thing is, Dean’s not. He knows what Sam means. They can be brothers. They probably are brothers. But … they’re not. There is more. Has been for a while.

Dean’s seen what Sam’s like when his expectations get derailed, when Dean climbed onto his bed and put his mouth to all that sweet scared skin. He knows that no one else has been allowed to just hold Sam late at night when he’s lost himself in his head and woken up in a closet somewhere. He knows that no one else has let Sam be that weak and that strong at the same time, showing his weakness, without taking advantage of it. It’s a terrible kind of trust they have between them and if it would ever be allowed to grow, to go off the leash, then they’re going to be something so much stronger together, something bigger than the sum of the parts. But it would take a kind of sacrifice that Sam is not ready to make.

-Not the way I would wish, Sam says and he sounds like this is already a done deal.

So Dean doesn’t get to keep Sam and Sam doesn’t get to keep Dean. Except, of course, that’s bullshit, because they’re brothers and that doesn’t go away. Choice doesn’t enter into that.

-Sam… Sammy. We don’t have to figure it all out right this minute, do we? Dean asks.   
-No, Sam agrees. “I thought you’d have questions, though.”  
-Yeah. No. Well, yeah. But… What dad did…   
-It’s not going to tie up neat, Dean. We’re not going to be able to put a bow on it. It’s a big fucking mess. It’s probably always going to be a big fucking mess.   
-You’d have thought I would be used to that by now.   
-It’s different when it’s about yourself. Can’t just leave town and outrun it.   
-Wise beyond your years, Sammy.

Sam gives him another of those crooked little grins.

The hardest thing about all this isn’t facing up to the things that Dean has been blind to, the things that were done for his own good, in the name of the greater good. He’s always known that there were things his father kept from him, mostly about the hunt for the biggest dragon, because of their difference of opinion on that particular topic. Not being able to trust even the oldest, truest friends of his father, the men that have been part of Dean’s life for as long as he can remember, that’s painful. It’s like everything in Dean’s life just stuttered a step to the left when he wasn’t looking and everything that he’s been kind of half-skeptical about turned out to be so much worse than he’s ever imagined. And Sam’s told Dean that’s what happened to him, over and over.

Sam doesn’t trust anyone. Dean can’t blame him. Not if this is what that feels like.

And Dean, who thought he was cynical and jaded, has finally been forced to realize that he had a lot more trust and a lot more belief in people left than he thought. Not now, though. Now all that’s been broken into tiny little pieces, neat as you please. It a brand new world.

-So what’s your plan? Dean asks.   
-Same plan I’ve had for years. School. Scholarship. I might go a different direction than I thought originally, but…   
-School. That’s your plan.   
-Brains are the only thing I ever got for free. I intend to use them, Sam tells him and there’s something in the air now, the tension slowly ebbing.   
-Yeah, Dean says and it’s more of a sigh than a word, really.

Sam just sits there, watching Dean and it’s oddly comforting. Dean’s grown used to the weight of that scrutiny. He thinks he’s learned to hold up pretty well with Sam’s eyes on him, looking straight through him, really seeing him. Then Sam does the last thing Dean would ever have predicted. Sam stretches into a half crouch and slinks over to Dean on hands and knees. He’s moving slow and sure and graceful. He keeps coming until he’s right in Dean’s lap, knees either side of Dean’s hips and Dean knows what this is. He knows a soldier’s farewell when he’s getting one.

-Right now, Sam says and his breath lingers over Dean’s mouth carrying with it the bitter scent of coffee, “we’re not brothers.”

And Dean should say so many things. He should say “no” and he wants to say his little brother’s name and he wants to give some kind of undying declaration of intent and he wants to make promises. Instead he lets Sam kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him until the bruised feeling in his chest turns into something else.

Dean got it wrong. Sam is not some stray. He’s a wild thing that puts on the disguise of being domesticated from time to time, but at his core, in his heart, he’s never going to be tame. It’s just not in his nature.


	54. Beginning to End, End to Beginning

Max is the ugliest dog Dean’s ever seen. He’s built like a boxier version of a Great Dane and has straggly bristled fur that grows out in perpetual snarls. He’s got one blue eye and one brown. He’s mud colored and has a muzzle that looks like it houses too many teeth. There’s a little underbite going on too. He’s not well proportioned and he carries himself like he’s pulling a sled. Max is more than happy to drool all over Dean’s jeans as he lays claim to Dean’s ability to move from where he’s sitting on a porch in the wilds of the bayou near New Orleans.

The screen door creaks closed behind them as Lainy walks out with two mugs of deep dark chicory roast coffee. She sits down and hands one mug over without looking at Dean.

Lainy is … well. Most would say she’s a witch but that’s not exactly what she is. Lainy. Laine. Delaine. La-Lainey. She’s got about eight different names she goes by and Dean’s still not sure which is her real one. If any of them are. Names gives power, after all.

She’s one of those hard-to-categorize people. Lainy has on the kind of boots that go halfway up the knee and are mostly made up of buckles. She paints her lips black and uses red eyeliner. She’s got skin the color of pale chocolate milk and violet eyes. A delicate tendril of ivy is tattooed around her right wrist and she wears rings on all the fingers of her left hand, even the thumb. She’s flat-chested enough to be androgynous, but she’s got long slender legs that wouldn’t look wrong on a cowgirl. She smokes cigarettes that smell of cloves and makes some of the best coffee Dean’s ever had. Sam would weep. Really.

Dean’s here because there was some trouble with a bunch of girls who thought it would be a good idea to start a coven in New Orleans, of all places, because they read a few too many Anne Rice novels and didn’t pay attention to the message inherent in the text, which is that immortality sucks balls when you have to forfeit everything, up to and including your soul. Dean had gone because if he didn’t then John would have and John would have just started shooting. Even at Lainy, probably. Not that he would have gotten far with that, because there’s more to this girl than meets the eye, which is a good thing considering she probably weighs about a buck twenty-five soaking wet even with those big kick ass boots on. Truthfully? If it came down to it Dean would put his money on Lainy every single time.

She’s sitting quietly now, sipping her coffee and resting one toe of her big boot on Max’s rump. The dog is in doggy heaven, head resting on Dean’s feet, rump under his mistress’s boot. Don’t let that fool you, though. Max is more than meets the eye too. Dean’s seen the dog actually charge and chew his way through a restless spirit that came a little too close to Lainy for his liking. And he’s one of those dogs, you know? When you look him in the eye there’s someone looking back at you with an informed opinion of your character.

It wasn’t until after that whole fucking mess at Pastor Jim’s that Dean finally started understanding how completely skewed his father’s ideas about the paranormal really are. As a hunter, John took refuge in the certainties of a black-and-white view of the world that had his own decisions and prejudices as the only overriding interpretation of what went in which category. Dean, though… he lives in the grays. He’s become acutely aware of how much he stands straddling the divide on a daily basis. Dean’s learned a lot about the kinds of things that haunt the gray dusk and dawn of the world in the last year or two.

Lainy’s good with the grays. She lives there too, even more so than Dean. She told him about her ancestry at some point. Russian-Irish on her father’s side and African Cajun-French on her mother’s. Four bloods, she called it with a wide grin and a wild look in her violet eyes. Dean had come to Lainy looking for a way to undo what had been done to him. Or, failing that, at least a way to understand it.

Dean had been the one to bring Lainy Max, a small bundle of fur in a cardboard box. He’d had no idea what that dog would grow into. As much as Max loves him, and he really does, he had taken one look at Lainy and fallen into the kind of devoted courtly love that epic poems are written about. And Lainy had scratched behind Max’s floppy ear and sealed the deal. Dean can’t seem to keep any of his strays. That’s okay, though, he knows when he’s just the intermediary, the forerunner. When Max stands at attention his head is level with Lainy’s waist, just tall enough that her hand always rests comfortably on his neck. It was meant to be.

Lainy couldn’t help him with what ever was done to him when he was a kid. He still doesn’t remember his mom or baby Sammy. He doesn’t remember more than just the impression of fire and something bad from that night. He never will. He’s made his peace with that. More or less. He’s still angry about it. He’s still angry at his father, at Pastor Jim. Bobby wasn’t in on it when it happened and that big blow-out that he and John had was all about what happened when he found out. That doesn’t let him off the hook with Dean, though, because there were still a few years there when he could have told Dean and didn’t. Dean will work with Bobby, but that’s more out of expediency and earned trust than anything else. He won’t work with John and he doesn’t even talk to Pastor Jim anymore.

They don’t know where Sam is.

Or, well…Dean knows. Find a big city, change your name and disappear, that’s what Sam had said. And that’s what he’d done too, with a little help from Dean and a certain computer hacker genius. Lainy had a hand in it, spell work, cloaking. She’s very good at that kind of thing.

Dean wears a bracelet of skulls and a silver ring these days. It’s damper magic, and to augment his abilities. Turns out he has talent, after all. Not like Sam, who has a fucking radio dial in his head that swerves into past and future things sometimes and sometimes just picks up random chatter. Dean has what Lainy described as enhanced sensibility. He’s good at being where he’s needed when he’s needed there, but fuck knows how that works. He tries not to think too much about it because, frankly, it gives him the heebees.

Betrayal always comes at the hands of a friend. Sam told him that. Sam’s actually more knowledgeable about a lot of things than he lets on. He had been hiding so much when they rode together. He had been trying so hard to keep himself separate and apart from what was happening and still trying to steer the outcome. He’d done a good job of it too. Dean thinks Sam has the potential to rule the world if he sets his mind to it. Scary thought.

-How’s your boy? Lainy asks when they’ve sat there watching the slowly unfolding dawn for a while.

She always says that, always says “your boy”, never uses Sam’s name. He’s not sure he wants to know what that distinction means.

-Doing good. Test scores through the roof. Met a girl.

Lainy turns her head towards him and gives him an incredulous look. Oh, yeah, there’s that too. He got that same look when he told her about Cassandra, and that wasn’t just for the name. She doesn’t say anything, though, just sits there looking at him. Fuck, Dean knows that tactic. Sam does that all the time.

And that, right there? That’s the thing.

They talk, him and Sam. They even see each other once in a while. They’re brothers. They do brother-stuff together. Or, well, their version of that, which isn’t so much beers and ballgames as selkie hunts and lore parsing. It’s still nothing like what it was and at the same time it’s more than it was, but all that is less important because the simple fact is that Dean thinks about the kid all the time. Really. Like every other thing in his mind is Sam and how he would look and what he would say and what he did say that one time in that room in Louisville and that thing with the cat or just how the kid likes his coffee. Every other beat of his heart is for Sam. Lainy knows.

She’s met Sam, talked to him. She’s seen what he and Sam are together. She’s as careful with her words when she’s dealing with Sam as someone would be when dealing with the Sidhe. Dean’s not sure what that’s about exactly, but it’s interesting.

-She nice, this girl? Lainy asks and her voice is a lilting wisp in the humid air.  
-I’m sure she is, Dean says because he hasn’t met her yet.

Lainy smiles and it’s spiked with teeth.

-Oh, you know, she says, “when a boy like that kisses you he stays with you forever.”

Dean knows. Jesus. He still wakes up with the lingering memory of the taste of Sam’s mouth sometimes. And then Sam will call him on the heels of that like he knows.

There’s still something going on with them. There are things that live just underneath the nearly mundane explanations of long lost brothers and chance meetings and serendipity. Dean can’t deny that either. He’s thought about it a lot, how they met, what happened when they did. How they kept coming together. How they fit together. How Sam tastes.

-You’re a romantic, Lainy, Dean says.   
-And you’re a love ‘em and leave ‘em Lothario with a big butch car and a chip on your shoulder that can be seen from Pluto.

Dean makes some kind of scoffing noise at that.

-Leave your bullshit at the door, Lainy says and her voice never loses that engaging melodic tone, but her expression means business.   
-I came here hunting witches, not for… that, Dean tells her because he almost says “a heart-to-heart” but that’s not something he should be saying to the woman at his side.   
-It’s not your time yet, she says with the kind of certainly that’s more than a little startling.   
-What does that even mean?

The thing about Lainy is that when they’re kicking back with a couple of beers she’s easy and fun, good company, sings Dolly Parton songs in a surprisingly sweet voice. When she’s working she’s fucking terrifying. When she’s like this, she’s … chilling in that bone deep unsettling way that only some very specific things can be.

-They were afraid for you together. The priest…  
-Pastor, Dean corrects.   
-… man of the cloth, she amends without even looking at him, “saw something in your future. The seer your father went to saw something. They all thought it was bad. So they tried to do what all men do when they see things they don’t like, don’t understand. They tried to change the things that were and the things that are, but, Dean, your ti-frere and you, you’re where you are now because of that. So the things that were and the things that are, they never changed.”

Dean rubs a hand through his hair and tries to parse that. It’s been a long night. He takes a sip of his coffee.

-You’re saying that the fact that they separated us is going to bring on the thing that they were trying to stop by separating us? Dean asks slowly.   
-Sometimes fate is bigger, Lainy tells him and cocks her head to one side.   
-That can’t be good, Dean says without thinking and he’s rewarded with a low rasping laugh from Lainy who is lighting one of her clove cigarettes with a brass lighter shaped like a bullet casing.  
-Men are stupid sometimes, Lainy says. “You two together was never bad. You love him, don’t you?”  
-Of course I do, he’s my brother.

Lainy treats him to a second helping of that “please, no bullshit” look.

-You love him like heart, not like family, she says.   
-Getting a little personal, Dean warns.   
-You think I’ve not seen stranger?

Dean’s sure she has.

-You have too much between you, you and your boy. Family, blood, fate. Love like some dream of. It touches power, that kind of thing. Makes targets of things that try to come between. Makes punishments for those who don’t listen.   
-Tell that to my dad, Dean says.   
-And where is he now? Is he with his sons who love and trust him? She asks. “Punishment isn’t always violence. Sometimes it’s in the conscience of whoever has to face the consequences of what they’ve done.”

They sit there for a moment, not talking. Lainy smokes her cigarette and Dean finishes his coffee. He reaches down and pats Max’s side making the dog heave a huge, big doggy-sigh of sheer contentment.

-I miss him, Dean hears himself saying.   
-Of course you do, Lainy agrees.   
-Miss him like crazy.

The look Lainy gives him is colored by that thing she said earlier, that “once a boy like that kisses you” thing. Fuck. Dean knows, okay? He does. It’s not normal, whatever that means. Dean’s caught and let himself be caught so many times, kissing and spending the night with someone. Sometimes more than one night. It’s always been bodies and feeling good and being generous and taking care of who you’re with, at least once he figured it out enough to not be too drunk or stupid about it. And Sam should have been something else anyway. He started out as something else. He started out as a … project, of sorts. Not a stray, Dean had that one so fucking wrong, but Dean made promises. He’s not sure now if it would have made it better if he never had put hands on Sam.

Dean still wants him. And Dean’s usually so good at talking himself out of thinking about things that he can’t have, things that he knows are out of bounds or off limits. Sam is … all those things. That doesn’t mean Dean thinks that’s right.

-I’m not going to give you advice, Dean, Lainy says in a quiet, contemplative tone. “But when you feel you need to go find him, go find him. He draws like a flame with all that light inside him. Moths. Firebugs. Dark things. But you too, and you matter in that, more than you know, probably.”   
-Is this the cryptic oracle speaking? Dean says and gives her a shit eating grin.   
-I don’t read tea leaves. Not unless it’s for the tourists, Lainy tells him with a matching sharp slice of a smile.   
-And then you only talk about love, work and money, right? Dean says and now he’s just giving her attitude to dispel the way the air thickens in his lungs when she talks like that.   
-I tell them what they want to hear. It’s all anyone ever wants, Lainy says and her eyes hold the practiced glimmer of a born con artist.

Dean also knows that what she just did? That wasn’t her telling him what he wants to hear. That was her paying him back for cleaning up in her backyard, so to speak. The burgeoning coven had been messing with things they couldn’t even begin to understand and flirting with the kind of dark side powers that could easily have left a ripple in Lainy’s community that would have meant power struggles and Petro curses.

Dean hits the road late in the afternoon after having slept for a few hours in Lainy’s spare bedroom. He feels tired, but clearheaded and that’s the way he always feels when he’s spent any time with Lainy and the beast. He wonders sometimes if that’s because she is what she is, if there’s something about her house, the wards on her house or if it’s just the fact that she actually knows him.

He makes it onto the I-10 eventually, driving under a Michelangelo sky of cotton clouds with light breaking from behind them and feels calm, feels like he’s got a handle on things.

Sam was seventeen years old when they met. No one is fully formed at seventeen. No one is yet the entire person that they are going to grow into. However, Sam was more his own person than anyone Dean’s ever met. And he’s thought about that. He’s thought about how much Sam was trying to balance in one hand while trying to work himself free of all the things that were pinning him down. Dean never intended to be one of those things, but he kind of thinks he ended up being just that.

Dean had wanted Sam to trust him. He had told the kid, over and over, that he wouldn’t hurt him, that he wouldn’t do anything he didn’t have express permission to do. The problem with that is, the way they came together wasn’t under their control, and Jesus, Dean knows how bad that is, really. When he thinks about it anger always slices through him like a cold blade. Sam was trying to trust him, he’s pretty sure. It’s not their fault that they came in during the third act, not knowing what had already been done to them. Sam is his brother. They’re sure now. Dean got most of the story out of Pastor Jim when he’d finally calmed down enough to call the man. The predictions, the decision to leave Sam with a fine upstanding family that would take such good care of him, how they’d lost track of the kid when he was shuffled in and out of the system and then suddenly all his records had vanished, all of it. And beating under the whole thing was the justification that they had done what they did for the grater good. Dean still has trouble with that too.

Sam is out from under most of it now. He’s in California, studying. He’s doing good. He’s got a girl. He’s top of his class, the overachieving little prodigy. But… he’s marked by darkness and by blood. He’s not free the way Dean thinks he really wants to be. He’s never going to unlearn all the things he knows, he’s never going to be a normal civilian. Dean thinks Sam knows that too. This is just a small reprieve. They’re not done yet. There are bigger things coming.

Dean finds himself a motel in the Metairie, five minutes from the French Quarter. It’s right next door to a little mom and pop convenience store, across the road from a Shell and a Chevron and he has to pay an extra buck for toilet paper and soap, but that’s fine. His phone died two days ago and he didn’t bother recharging it while he was working with Lainy. It takes five minutes for the thing to even get enough juice to tell him he has a voice message. When he listens to it his blood goes hot at the sound of his father’s voice and then completely cold when he hears the EVP crackle in the static.

“I can never go home” a woman’s voice tells him once he’s run it through a some filters and cleaned it up a little.

By noon the next day he’s repeatedly tried calling dad, most of his contacts and most of the people that would know what the hell to make of dad’s disappearing act. Dean’s not enough of a bastard to just let this one lie. At the very least he needs to know if John’s still alive.

A few things coalesce with the kind of sickening slickness that makes that thing that Dean denies he can do sit up and take notice.

It pulls at him. It niggles in the back of his mind when he tries anything and everything to take his mind off it. It tugs on his sleeve like a seven year old wanting to go to the carnival. It’s unavoidable. It’s fate and blood and things that aren’t under Dean’s control.

So Dean packs up the car and points her west. It’s a two day drive.

He needs to go get Sam.

 

The End


End file.
